


Small hands (In the palm of mine)

by Darling_please_do



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Jonmund, Jonsbane, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-01-22 21:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_please_do/pseuds/Darling_please_do
Summary: "I appreciate the booze, Jon Snow."He smiles, all crooked and sincere.  Jon would've kissed him then if those fucking bars weren't in the way.





	1. Flesh and bone

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer! I own nothing. Enjoy!

_I am alone, so don't speak_  
_I find war, and I find peace_  
_I find no heat, no love in me_  
_And I am low and unwell_  
_This is love, this is hell_

-Keaton Henson

* * *

Mance orders they take Castle Black and Tormund is of the first to breach it. He fights his way through brutally, and for the most part there is no one to stop him. Crows are easy to cut down in this state, all frantic and afraid. Some of them have rounder features, still soft with boyhood. Tormund slices their throats all the same. 

He gets pegged by a few arrows to the back, quick blades draw blood a time or two, but mostly he is still intact even after the battle has ended and the crows have him surrounded. He is ready to die in these moments, taking with him as many bastards in black as he can.

Of course Jon fucking Snow has to come and stick his nose in it. He puts Tormund down with a well aimed arrow to the knee, finishes him off by kicking the axe from his hands. 

And Tormund is _livid_ , struggles even after they've started putting him in chains. The anger taste like blood between his teeth, and still he doesn't start screaming until he notices a shock of fiery red hair from the corner of his eyes. 

He knows it's Ygritte before he actually sees her. 

The sound he makes isn't human. 

"I shoulda thrown you from the wall when I had the chance!" Jon Snow is no longer looking at him, but the boy stops and Tormund knows he understands. He was probably there to watch her die. He might've even been the one who shot that arrow.

Jon looks over his shoulder, grim and almost wistful, like he too wishes Tormund would've killed him then and saved them all this trouble.

"Aye, you should've."

* * *

The next time they see each other a kind elderly crow has spent hours working to patch Tormund's wounds only for him to find out that Mance Rayder has become prisoner to a southern king named Stannis. He doesn't understand why they would have him healed only to torture and kill him later, but he supposes it doesn't matter that he understands. These people have silly customs that are well beyond his comprehension. It passes time to ask questions though, so the next time Jon Snow comes around Tormund asks him, "Your old blind man patched me up. Why?"

The crow blinks at him, slow and almost sad. They had almost been friends once. He wonders if the boy remembers. Carefully Jon pulls up a chair, settles into it so heavily one might think he is carrying the weight of worlds on his shoulders. There was a time when Tormund would have worried for him, but now is not one of those times. He thinks of Ygritte, her blue eyes distant and glazed. Such a stark contrast to the sharp mischievous glances she'd sent him from across countless campfires. 

"He is sworn to treat all wounded men, friend or foe." 

Ah. Of course he is. Crows and the vows they take. It's all the bastards ever talk about. Tormund curls his upper lip and spits on the ground near Jon's feet. 

"You want me alive so you can torture me?" It's what he would expect of them. 

Jon Snow fidgets in his seat. He seems bothered by the question, and Tormund figures he's guessed right then. But the crow finally shakes his head, fingers curling into fists at his side.

"No one's going to torture you." He looks damn well determined to stand by those words, and Tormund finds himself curious of what Snow would do if king Stannis or head crow gave such an order. 

"So how do we die? Hanging? Beheading?" The wildling is anxious but not yet afraid. That's subject to change as time draws near. It may calm him to know the manner in which he'll be leaving this world. Jon doesn't look at him. The boy's gaze has fallen down to examine the soot and water tracked in by snow covered boots, avoiding the question however he can. It would be endearing if there wasn't so much death between them. 

Giantsbane leans into the iron wrought bars that keep him prisoner, much too calm for a conversation of this caliber. They'd only spent a few weeks working together but in that short time he'd learned much about how to push the crows buttons. "Drop us from the top of the wall?" He makes the suggestion casually, not the least bit surprised when Jon's eyes rise to meet him. Tormud expects a disgruntled rebuke, maybe some comment about vows, but there is none of that. The boy only looks lost. 

"I don't know what happens to the prisoners." Jon's face is grim set, and Tormund sees something akin to fear in his gaze. Maybe the crow had cared about them, once upon a time. He hopes Ygritte knew that before she died. 

"Who decides?"

There's a moment of quiet as Snow considers it, fingers gripping at the thigh of his pants. He must know. Maybe he just doesn't like the answer. 

"I suppose Stannis does."

Ah. Jon Snow doesn't know this new king. Tormund had heard whispers of what happened, how Stannis and his men rode through and slaughtered the freefolk. It was a cruel way of fighting, no honor to it. How could good and loyal Jon Snow ever kneel to a man such as this?

"He your king now?" The question is meant to be a harsh one, barbed and angry. Snow doesn't flinch. 

Tormund has noticed him wringing his hands. That is nothing new. Jon does it absently while brooding, a habit he'd struggled with before as well, back when Tormund was fooled into thinking he could be one of them. Ygritte had been the most scorned by his betrayal but Tormund came a close second. He'd liked this crow, honestly and truly. Jon Snow had balls for a pretty boy.

"I don't have a king." His voice has a certain clarity to it, and Giantsbane wonders if this is how he spoke to Ygritte in that cave. She didn't give any specifics but Tormund knew, and she knew that he knew. It was just the relationship they had. She might be proud to hear the crow now, talking like this. 

"You spent too much time with us, Snow. You can never be a kneeler again." He smiles, smug and almost satisfied in knowing they'd changed this boy regardless of how much he'd fought against them. Jon Snow might still be a sworn member of the night's watch but he is free at heart.

Jon doesn't try to deny what's been said of him, and that only pleases Tormund more. Instead the crow takes a long suffering sigh and leans forward. "We're gonna burn the bodies of your dead. Do you want to say any words over them?"

The wildling snorts at his question, expression one of morbid fascination now. What good could a couple of words said over a corpse do for their dead? It wouldn't be of any comfort to anyone. But Jon is asking and Tormund wants to understand before he says no. 

"Words? What kind of words?"

Snow seems uncomfortable to be talking about it. He scuffs his boots across the floor and speaks just loud enough for Tormund to hear, "Funeral words. I don't know how the free folk do it." The boy trails off, and Tormund figures maybe he is thinking of Ygritte, what they might say over her if given the chance. 

"Do _what_?"

"Say farewell." He is looking at Tormund, all open and honest for once. Perhaps he is thinking about his ginger prisoner and the words he will say over this body when the time comes. It sends an odd little pang of hurt through Tormund's chest, and for just a moment he takes pity on this boy in a man's shoes. His voices is soft when he speaks, boarding on gentle. He does not say this to be spiteful. He says it because it's true. 

"The dead can't hear us, boy."

That answer seems to hit home for Jon. He moves as though to walk away, back already turned to the wildling in chains. Tormund isn't ready to see him go. It's not hard to think up a question to keep the crow here another minute, he has so many.

"Snow. Did you love her?" Boots come to a grinding halt near the door, and Giantsbane watches as the crows back goes rigid. It's satisfying in some sick way. He wants this boy to grieve for the women they've lost. "She loved you."

Jon finally turns to him, and the little bastard has the gall to look shocked, like it wasn't plain as day how she felt about him. Her pretty little crow.

"She told you?" The boy takes a step towards him. His hand twitches, and Tormund half expects he will reach out but he never does, only keeps staring with those dark almond eyes. The wildling wonders if this is the first time anyone has loved him. 

"No. All she ever talked about was killing you. That's how I know." Jon deflates at the words, but knowing Ygritte this would be the best he ever got. He might even deserve it. What right does he have to live while her body is stiffening in the snow?

"She belongs in the North. The real North. You understand me?" Tormund could rise to his full stature, peer at the boy from between thick iron bars and give off the perception that he can still snap necks, even while in this cage. Its effective but there's no need for intimidation. Tormund stays seated, noticing how the boys shoulders are slumped in defeat. He has no fight left in him, not now, not over this. 

Later Tormund hears about how Jon took the red headed wildling girl from Castle Black to be put to rest in the North. The news is like a soothing balm over his heart.

* * *

Snow visits him frequently after this, bringing food and little scraps of news. These moments are a welcomed distraction, still Tormund can't comprehend what keeps the boy coming back. Anyone can deliver his daily meal, and talking is certainly not required. This persists for almost a week. Tormund's grown to expect his company. 

He knows something's changed when Jon comes to him at night. The boy is quiet in a way that leads Tormund to believe he isn't supposed to be here. Not even his boots make noise, each step carefully placed on a plank of wood that doesn't creak. Sleep is hard to come by in this place where it's constantly cold or damp if not both. Giantsbane warily tracks Jon's silhouette as he pulls up a chair and sits down. He is younger than Tormund but his bones creak when he sits. The wildling watches him, waits. 

Nothing happens. The crow just sits there, dark and brooding. Tormund knows the boys eyes to be brown but tonight they look bleak, pitch black under all the creases in his forehead. He wonders why Jon has come here, to this tiny cold room with nothing but a cell and its one occupant.

"What you doin' here crow?" His breath is a bloom of frost, reminiscent of smoke hitting the air. It's freezing in this room but Tormund barely notices. He was raised in the wild, has lived with ice his entire life. The cold is the least of his worries here. 

Jon doesn't answer. It would be frustrating if the crow wasn't so damn nice to look at. Tormund figures the boy is contemplating so deeply he might not have even heard. Ygritte had told him of how Snow loved to brood. It seems she hadn't been exaggerating.

He doesn't know how much times passes. There is no real way for him to tell. The crow has been here for what feels like hours by the time he finally moves, stands on stiff legs and leaves without a word. Tormund listens to his retreating footsteps and wonders if this has been some strange farewell, a southern habit he doesn't know about. 

The wildling is already settled back into his corner when he hears it again, those same damn boots thudding up the stairs. Maybe they've finally decided what to do with him. Tormund stands to glance out the window, expecting to see a block for his head or platform for hanging. There's nothing but the wind blowing snow through an empty courtyard.

When he turns around Jon is already in the room, standing just in front of the cell with a large fur clutched against his chest. The crow looks down at the sleek black garment, gnawing his bottom lips as though he still hasn't made up his mind. Tormund steps towards him. Jon shifts on his feet as though he might step back, but in the end he stands still and allows the wildling to approach.

From here Tormund can see he looks guilty, haunted almost. Something must've happened then. 

"Here." Jon thrusts the thick layer of fur between iron bars. The wildling can feel his hand, if only for a moment as they press the coat into his chest. He takes it gingerly, surprised to find it's still warm from where the crow had it held so tightly.

"You wastin' good fur on me boy?"

"It's not a waste if it keeps you warm." Jon leaves him then. The boy tries to keep his steps steady but it still seems like something's hot on his heels. The door shuts heavily behind him, and Tormund is once again alone in the cold except this time he has a fancy new fur to keep him cozy. 

Giantsbane presses the soft fabric against his cheek and for a moment he's convinced he can still smell the crow.

* * *

People talk of what will be done with Mance Rayder. The southern king says he can either bend the knee or burn to death, and Tormund already knows which Mance will choose. He would do the same himself. So it's no surprise when some nameless lot of soldiers come to collect, leading him down into the courtyard so he can watch his friend and leader burned alive. 

Tormund is placed in the front row, chained and helpless to do anything but witness as Stannis asks Mance to kneel one last time before sentencing him to die. It's a savage thing. Something even his people reserve for the worst of punishments. Tormund sweeps the crowd for Jon Snow. Of course his crow has come to observe the end. Mance had led the attack on their castle after all. He's heard time and time again about the fifty crows that met a gruesome death that night. At least it was honorable. They died protecting the castle they claimed. They died free.

Mance will die in shackles, burning like some nice plump pig placed over the fire. He finds Jon standing on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Mance pauses to catch Snow's eye as they lead him up to the post. In another life they could have been friends. 

Tormund thinks maybe he's seeing things, but for just a moment Jon Snow looks as though he dreads this just as much as any wildling forced to be here. 

They say some words and a women in red declares Mance the king of lies. Giantsbane feels a white hot rage prickling his skin as Stannis gives the order. His witch takes up a torch, cruel satisfaction shining in her eyes as she ignites the pyre. It seems that southern kings don't carry out the sentences they pass down. Tormund feels like he's swallowed brimstone, can feel it sitting in his belly, setting fire to his insides. The blaze creeps closer, and Giantsbane clenches his teeth in dread when it nears Mance's legs. 

It's clear the moment flame meets skin. Mance screams, a sound that pierces through Tormund's ribcage and leaves him gasping for breath. It seems in those seconds that this will last forever-

But then it stops, just as quickly as it started. Tormund has been watching this whole time, and still it takes a minute for his mind to process what has happened. There's an arrow in Mance's chest, well aimed and merciful. 

The only man holding a bow in the crowd is Jon Snow.

His crow.

Tormund is grinning as they drag him back to his cell, smiling like a fool from ear to ear. Mance has died but he was spared the worst of it. In this situation that is the best they could've hoped for. And they have none other than Jon fucking Snow to thank for it. The soldiers throw him back behind bars, he doesn't get to see what they do with Snow. Tormund hopes to see the crow again though. Expects he will avoid this punishment just as he's avoided so many others. 

Soon after he learns that Jon Snow has been elected as the new King Crow. It's cold in his cell but Tormund smiles despite himself, a certain warmth blooming in his chest

* * *

Tormund had assumed his first late night visit from the crow would be the last. They were special circumstances, Snow had reason to feel guilty so he'd offered what little he could. There's no rational cause for the next visit, but it happens all the same. Jon stumbles into the room on wobbling knees. He's had more than a few to drink. The stench of it is heavy the second he walks in. 

Snow pauses in the doorway, just long enough for a white direwolf to follow him inside. He scratches the beast behind its ear like one would a common dog before staggering over towards Tormund's cell. Tonight Jon plops down beside him on the filthy stone floor, not once bothering with a chair.

Giantsbane stares at the boy, curious about the way his lips seem to tremble. The only light in the room is a small torch by the door. It sends tiny shadows dancing across Snow's cheek. 

"What's cursing you today, crow?" Tormund scoots a little closer. Jon doesn't seem to notice. He reaches into his coat and produces a long bottle. It's too full to be what he'd been drinking on all night, something he'd brought here just to share. He passes it to Tormund without comment, and shudders when their fingers brush during the hand off. 

The wildling takes a long swig of whatever foul tasting booze Jon has managed to sneak off with. He's grateful for it. Until now he thought his days of sharing drinks and feeling tipsy were behind him. 

"Do you think she had a good life?"

Tormund snorts at the question, turns himself until he is face to face with the miserable crow outside his cell. If not for the bars between them, he'd be able to reach out and touch the boy. 

"Oh aye, surely she did." The wildling sounds perfectly certain of himself. "She was always out doing something or other. She learned well and traveled far. We had lots of fun together, we did." His lips twist into a wistful sort of smile. "And because of you Snow, she had some love in her life before it ended. I think Ygritte would be damn proud of all she accomplished, though we all wish she'd had time to do more." Tormund is warmed by the thought of her, takes another drink to her memory. 

"She'd have liked this, us getting along so well." It's only partly sarcasm. Tormund realizes now that he wants Jon to smile. It's not as fun as he thought it would be seeing the crow glassy eyed and helpless. 

"You believe so?" Jon doesn't know what she'd think, he didn't have enough time with her to understand how her mind worked. He hopes that Tormund is right though, it would make these strange little visits between them so much easier if he knew she would have approved of it. The crow shifts his weight, tongue sneaking out to carefully wet chapped lips. He has something to say but the words are caught in his throat. 

Tormund is surprisingly patient with him. Giantsbane drinks and passes the bottle back. Jon's hand lingers a bit longer than necessary and Tormund has the sudden urge to reach for the boys wrist, pull him closer. He wonders what those pretty pink lips taste like. The thoughts are fleeting. Jon takes the booze and Tormund settles back on his side of the bars. 

The crow takes a drink, and maybe it gives him some courage. Afterwards he swipes a hand across his mouth and speaks softly, words careful and uncertain. "You said she loved me once. Did you mean that?" 

Tormund is taken off guard by the question. He'd figured this had been buried with Ygritte, but it seems as though the crow is still letting it fester. Poor bastard. His heart is too tender for this cruel world they live in. Giantsbane scoots closer to the crow, until his shoulder is pressed flush against the iron bars. It takes a moment, but eventually Jon closes the distance between them. Tormund is almost startled by the feeling of the boy's arm leaning into his. He looks over to find Jon is staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

Tormund's never been one to disappoint. 

"You're alive, aren't you? If she didn't love you, you'd have never made it back to Castle Black after betrayin' her like you did." The words weren't meant to hurt but Jon flinches anyways. He doesn't know how to feel about everything he's done in service to the watch. He took a vow and he meant every word of it, but look where it's gotten him. All the people he's put to the sword in order to honor some words said under a tree North of the wall. He feels the guilt like a sinking stone in his stomach. 

"I loved her." _Fuck_ , he'd loved her so much he'd wanted to leave his people, become a wildling and disappear into the real North with her. He'd loved her and he watched the life drain out of her, little by little, breath by breath. "And I miss her now. So much that I don't know what to do about it some days. Feels like my heart might just shrivel up and stop in my chest. She's everywhere for me. Fucking in the fires we burn to keep warm at night, standing at the bottom of the wall when i'm on duty. I catch just a glimpse of her and then she's gone." The boy reaches out, gloved fingers closing around thin air.  
His head has fallen to rest against Tormund's shoulder. It should feel like more weight considering how Jon has slowly slumped completely into the bars, nothing but Tormund to keep him from falling on bare metal. It is none of that though. Jon is a warm weight, heavy with life and the grief they've shared. Tormund likes the feel of him. 

"Aye, I miss her too boy. She'd probably like that you went and got piss drunk over the memory of her." The crow hiccups softly, no doubt surprised by the soft fondness of those words. Tormund takes the opportunity to snag the bottle of ale, careful not to jostle Jon's head in the process. 

The boy glances up at him, eyelashes longer than any woman he's ever seen. There are a few tiny droplets caught in them, reflecting off the fire light. "Do you think we could've made it work?" Snow hesitates, gaze dropping to the concrete floor, weighed down by his shame. "If Ollie hadn't shot that arrow."

Tormund watches Jon shudder, and against his better judgement he reaches out for the crow. The boy's frame fits surprisingly well in the crook of his arm. Giantsbane tugs Jon closer, not satisfied until their foreheads touch. He can feel the crow leaning into it despite the metal biting into skin. Jon sniffles, soft and damn near pitiful. Tormund's heart aches for him.

"If she hadn't been hit by that arrow there's a good chance she'd have shot you with one." It's the truth. Tormund has never been good at lying. "But nonetheless I think you two could've made it. She was a stubborn one, and it seems to me crow that you are too. Who knows. She loved you, and you loved her, but more often than not loves just not enough these days." 

Jon thinks of his father. Ned had once told him that everything before the word _but_ is horseshit. He doesn't know if that counts in this situation. Tormund says she would have shot him, _but_. And he remembers how she'd looked at him, lowering the bow inch by inch. He doesn't presume to know if she still planned on killing him or not.

"Life is a cruel thing. We slaughtered everyone in that village the boy came from. You might feel the guilt, but that bit is not your fault. She was a free women and she decided to help kill those people. Ygritte always knew what it could cost." Tormund means the words to be comforting but Jon doesn't feel any better after hearing them. The wildling is warm though, his blood still runs and his arm is heavy around Jon's shoulders. It's soothing in a way he's never known. Being with Ygritte felt different. She was so tiny and fierce, even in that cave. Tormund has these moments of quiet. Jon's seen him in action, the same arm that holds him now has ended so many lives. The crow's gaze drifts to their hands, linked at the fingers. He is wearing gloves but he can still feel the warmth of Tormund's palm against his, seeping into the leather. 

It's hard to salvage anything in this world, and at this point Jon's done his fair share of losing. Maybe he can keep this though, not forever, but he can steal away these quiet moments and that can be enough for him. He doesn't plan on living all that long anyways, not in this line of work. 

"Here boy, take this and quit all that poutin'." Tormund gives him a gentle nudge with the bottle, gaze strangely soft as he looks upon Jon's brooding expression. The boy's entire face is drawn tight in contemplation. "You'll be an old man before you know it if you keep this up." 

The comment earns him a playful elbow to the ribs. Snow takes the bottle being offered. He's isn't expecting the wildling to reach up and touch him, just between the eyes. His hand is huge and worn, callused across the palm and every finger. It feels rough against the soft skin of Jon's face but to his absolute astonishment the crow never once flinches away. He allows Tormund to rub a thumb over the crease in his brow, massaging until it's nothing but a small set of lines left behind from years of this same sort of sulking. It felt like Jon even leaned into the touch, if only for a moment.

"You can call me Jon, you know. I figured by now you've earned that right. I don't always have to be _boy_ and _crow_."  
Jon does a good job of keeping his tone even but something about the way he says it makes Tormund think this isn't the first time the crows thought about it. 

"Alright then _Jon_ ," Tormund had meant to sound teasing but finds he likes how easily the name rolls off his tongue. "Tell me about that beast you brought along tonight." It's not the first direwolf he's ever seen, but it's sure as hell the only one he'd ever known to be friendly enough for a pet behind the ear. 

"Oh, that's Ghost. I've had him for about four years now. He was runt of the litter." Jon's face is smooth with affection as he looks upon the wolf. "There just happened to be one for me and each of my siblings that day. Father allowed us to keep them." The boy's chest swells with drunken pride. "Not to mention a direwolf is our house sigil." He leans heavily into the iron bars and Tormund does his best not to laugh at how the boy's cheek is squished against the metal. It's easy now to see why Ygritte liked him so much. 

"Ah, you know what I could use right now?" Tormund doesn't know but there's no need for a response. Jon's going to tell him what it is anyways. "One of those meat pies my brother used to bring me." He sounds particularly wistful and Tormund finds his curiosity is peaked. "I wasn't allowed at the table with my family so I liked to stay outside during feasts." The explanation comes slowly, a fond expression taking over the crows face. His Adam's Apple bobs in a way that is very attractive. "Rob would always bring me a meat pie. We'd share it and talk so much shite about the people inside. God I miss that." Snow clears his throat, spine a little more rigid as he passes the bottle back. The wildling takes a sip and Jon has to avert his gaze, pretend not to wonder if Tormund can taste his lips on the rim of the glass. If he does the man gives nothing away, only grins in a way that makes his eyes crinkle at the sides while going on about telling stories. Most are of Ygritte, battles they've one and a few they lost. Jon listens and shares a couple of his own.

He stays until the sun comes up, long after the liquor is gone.

There isn't light outside yet, but Tormund knows from experience that they have roughly a half hour before Castle Black starts coming alive. The guards will change shifts and everyone will be waking. 

"Better go before you run the risk of bein' noticed here. It would be a bloody big scandal for the Lord Crow to be seen sharing sips of ale with a wildling now wouldn't it?" 

Unfortunately Tormund's right. Jon has duties to attend and an entire castle full of men who look to him for orders now. He has to at least appear like a man worthy of that responsibility. 

"I suppose you've got a point there. Better run before Edd or someone comes looking for me." He reaches to take the empty bottle back, this time expecting it when Tormund's fingers close around his wrist. The wildling doesn't squeeze. This is no assault. He is just holding on, skin to skin, hoping to remember this night until his last. It doesn't last long but it sets Jon's heart to racing. The crow gathers himself, carefully brushing away all the dust and dirt that clings to his trousers. Ghost seems to understand it's time they go. Jon's got his hand on the door when Tormund's voice rings out behind him. 

"Ah, one more question before you go." The wildling rises suddenly as if this question is one of great importance. Jon notices too late that his eyes are alight with mischief. "I never got to ask Ygritte so you gotta talk honest with me Snow." Tormund spoke nothing but truth all night, so in his eyes it's only fair Jon do the same. "Was she your first time in that cave?"

Jon visibly balks at the question, and that's good enough confirmation for Giantsbane. Still the wildling waits it out, watches in barely contained amusement as a blush creeps up the boy's neck to color his cheeks.

"Aye, she was." 

Tormund cannot help but laugh at the crow, endeared by how even his ears are tinted a bright pink. "And did you pleasure her like I told you to? Didn't go trying to ram yourself in without proper preparation didya?" Jon's face is hot with embarrassment. He may have hurt her once or twice, Ygritte wouldn't ever tell him. He'd been nervous and clumsy but she kissed him so sweetly none of that mattered. In the back of his mind he'd thought of Tormund and all the gingers advice about making love. He must be well experienced for all of his wisdom was sound. Jon had gone into that cave a virgin and walked out a fully fledged man.

The crow bites his tongue stubbornly. He can't very well tell Tormund all this. Jon doesn't have to though. The wildling takes one look at Snow's face and nearly starts howling. The laughter is silent and yet Jon feels more called out than ever before. "Oh fuck off. It was good advice, don't get a big head."

Tormund levels him with the smuggest smirk he's ever seen. "I already have a _big head_." He winks, suggestive in every way. "But thanks for the sentiment." Jon can't help but sputter. Fucking of course he's seen it before. How could he look at that towering ginger and not sneak a peek at least once? Especially after being brought into a tent and mistaking Tormund for the King Beyond the Wall. He'd even kneeled and the wildling never lets him forget it. 

Subtly Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, a lame attempt to shield his face before humiliation puts him into an early grave. It wouldn't be so degrading if Tormund's voice had not been in his head while at the cave, giving him directions, turning him on. 

"I appreciate the booze, Jon Snow." He smiles, crooked and sincere. Jon might have kissed him then, if those fucking bars weren't in the way. 

"Aye. Thank you for sharing the night with me." Snow doesn't mean for it to come out sounding how it does. If this were anyone else he'd have corrected himself, albeit somewhat awkwardly. But there's no need for that here, Tormund knows what he meant. 

The wildling's laughter follows him out. Jon swears he still hears it while doing morning rounds.


	2. Milk Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hard to lead when you're in chains." Its an impassive answer. He could elaborate but he wont. Tormund likes to make Jon ask for things. He is even prettier when he wants something.
> 
> "What if I unchained you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer! I own nothing. Please enjoy.

_One day they'll drink from our bones_   
_And sigh as they stared at our throats_   
_And just take me, just take me home_

-Keaton Henson

* * *

Tormund hadn't expected to see the crow again so soon. It's only mid afternoon when Snow finds his way back to the wildling's cell. Giantsbane notices small smears of darkness under Jon's eyes, smiles knowingly while the crow goes about switching him from cell to shackle. 

"So what brings you in here so early crow? You and your king Stannis finally decide what to do with me?" Jon has pulled up two chairs. They sit across from each other and Tormund takes stock of him now in the daylight. Jon is still pretty, that will always be true. But in the light it's easy to see that he's grown tired, weighed down by all the death surrounding them. 

Giantsbane always knew crows were strange creatures, fragile as they are fierce. Some stronger than others, much stronger. Refuse to make a sound no matter what is done to them. Others start begging for their mothers and spewing information before anyone has even produced a blade. 

His crow is one of the strong ones. Tormund learned that in the beginning, otherwise Ygritte wouldn't have developed such feelings about him. He knows and still finds himself constantly surprised by the balls on this one. Jon Snow gave the leader of the free folk a merciful death even knowing it could jeopardize his relationship with Stannis Baratheon. The boy becomes Lord Commander of his watch. He sneaks into this room at night and sits on the floor reaching through steel bars for a wildling he's betrayed. 

Then he goes and stuns Tormund again by proposing a plan for peace. 

"Where are the rest of the freefolk now?" 

The wildling scoffs at the question. What reason would he possibly have to give up the location of his people after just witnessing crows put so many to the sword. Jon might've given Mance a merciful death but they killed him all the same. A shared bottle of ale doesn't change that.

Jon tries again, ignoring the sullen expression pointed his way. "Where have they gone?"

Giantsbane only stares as if they have all day to look at each other.

The crow baits him then, asks a question he damn well knows Tormund will answer. They are a proud people, the free folk. He's been around them for far too long.

"Who leads them?"

Tormund's eyes narrow in suspicion. Surely the crow knows by now. He'd almost been one of them, once.

"They followed Mance. They won't follow anyone else. " 

Jon seems to contemplate that for a moment, hands fidgeting in his lap. There is only a table between them but in these moments Tormund feels like he's on the other side of the wall again and Jon is looking down at him from the top of it.

"What about you?" The crow sounds exasperated, leaning forward in his chair as if that will help him gain some insight into what Tormund is thinking. 

Tormund isn't thinking much about anything, except that Jon Snow is more beautiful than anyone has a right to be. Why does he waste time out here bleeding in the cold for men who wouldn't bleed for him? Giantsbane supposes it doesn't really matter why at this point. The crow is so damn stubborn he will probably die the same way he lives, knowing no one will care. It's all about honor to him. Some words he said a long time ago. 

"Hard to lead when you're in chains." Its an impassive answer. He could elaborate but he wont. Tormund likes to make Jon ask for things. He is even prettier when he wants something. 

"What if I unchained you?"

Tormund chuckles softly, waiting for Jon to join in because surely he is joking now. That or laying some sort of trap. People beyond the wall are funny. They don't always say what they mean.

Jon doesn't laugh though. He is waiting for an answer, watching Tormund with careful almond eyes as if the wildling might give something away with just an expression. 

"Why would you do that?" Giantsbane cocks his head to the side in wonder. The little bit of sunlight filtering through the window catches in his beard. Jon watches him and thinks about all the times he's heard Tormund claim to be kissed by fire. This is the first time he thinks maybe that's true. 

"Because you are not my enemy, and I'm not yours." The crow says it so softly, Tormund could almost believe he means it. If he were a smarter man he'd try harder to put himself in Jon's shoes. As it turns out he is not a smart man, and he is still bitter about all the loss his people suffered. He cannot make deals on their behalf, no matter how much he may like this boy. 

"You sure seemed like my enemy when you were killing my friends." The words come sharp and bladed. Jon Snow stares back at him, mouth twitching as if he could physically feel the loss that keeps the gingers blood hot. Maybe it was his loss, too.

The crow inhales sharply and tries again. "For 8,000 years the Night's Watch have sworn an oath to be the shield that guards the realms of men."

Tormund is already rolling his eyes. He has heard this damn speech more than enough for one lifetime. It's how they justify the killing of his kind. But Jon's gaze is softer, and he continues in a way Giantsbane is not expecting. "And for 8,000 years we've fallen short of that oath. You belong to the realms of men. _All of you_."

This part is new. Tormund eyes the boy warily, struck dumb by the unexpected twist of it all. So many of his people died so their children might possibly live on the other side of that bloody wall. Mance united them for that very purpose.

Now they're dead, and Jon Snow sits here talking of peace, offering all they have fought so hard to achieve. 

"And now everything is going to change?" Sounds like a load of shit, and Tormund does nothing to hide the disbelief lacing his tone. "Why now?" The man crosses his arms defiantly, acutely aware of the cold chains restricting his wrists. He likes Jon Snow, he really does. He might be a boy in black but he is handsome and honorable, kind where it counts. Giantsbane thought of him as a friend once. None of that matters here. This isn't about Jon Snow. This is about the freefolk, his people. And Tormund aims to protect his people.

Jon Snow must know this, because he presses forward with a funny little smile on his face, as though he knows something Tormund doesn't.

"Because now, I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Ah. Giantsbane was wondering when that would come into play, or if it were even true considering the crow hadn't so much as mentioned it until now. He had heard talk of it though, rumors of the new Lord Commander and his first few days in charge. There had even been a beheading. 

Well then, if this is the game they are playing then he might as well play along. 

"What would you have me do," The wildling mirrors Jon, leaning forward until they are mere inches apart. This close he can feel the crows breath on his face. It gives him a strange thrill. "Lord commander?" He speaks the title teasingly, curious about what Jon Snow is getting at these days. The boy has gone from prisoner to friend, enemy to captor. Surely he has something up his sleeve even now.

And of course, he does. Jon proposes Tormund should go North and gather up the remainder of his people, bring them back and somehow he will open the gates and find them lands to settle. It all sounds well and good, but entirely unrealistic. Tormund doesn't try and give him any kind words. Instead he tilts his head back and tells Jon exactly how it is.

"They won't kneel for you and neither will I."

The crow has stood up, determined now as Tormund has ever seen him. At this rate he could almost believe that Jon cares about the fate of the free folk. Or maybe he has seen what walks in the night, and is just this desperate to build enough people to fight against them. 

Tormund sneers at him all the same. It doesn't matter what Jon Snow's reasons are. The free folk won't follow a crow and they damn sure won't fight for one. 

The boy looks as if he wants to start shoving, chest rising and falling quickly in blatant agitation. He acts as though Tormund is just being prideful. 

And maybe he is. Or perhaps it also has something to do with him watching from the window as Jon Snow executed one of his own, hearing the discontented whispers of his brothers in black. Only a few of the crows seem to genuinely like their Lord Commander. Half of them serve out of loyalty. But what of the other half? If Snow keeps pushing he is liable to break what little devotion they have. 

Tormund would rather be prideful and stubborn than worried for a crows skin. 

"And how many of your people can't fight? The women, the children, the old, the sick, what happens to them? You're condemning them to death. Worse than death because you're too proud to make peace. Or maybe you're not proud. Maybe you're just a coward."

He should've known better. Jon Snow has had a sharp tongue ever since Tormund's known him, and according to Ygritte he's highly capable of using it.

Giantsbane rises to meet him now, so much taller and broader than Jon could ever hope to be. To the crows credit he doesn't cower. He stands chest to chest with the wildling, his bright orange beard just able to tickle Jon's nose.

"Easy thing to say to a man in chains." He might as well be a real giant compared to Snow, but the boy is staring up at him with the fircest glare Tormund's ever seen. He is beautiful even now, with his eyebrows pulled together and his jaw set. It would probably infuriate the crow to know he is trying so hard to be intimidating only for Tormund to stand here and think of how easy he is on the eyes. 

Jon reaches for hands much larger than his own. Tormund ignores the instinct to pull away, hesitantly allows the crow touch him. In truth he doesn't know what to expect, a dagger to the ribs maybe. Instead there is only warm fingers at his wrists, and the sound of metal clanking against metal until a weight lifts. 

The shackles rattle uselessly as they fall to the floor between them. 

Jon Snow should be bracing himself for a possible attack but he isn't. The crow stands there, patient and quiet as Tormund rubs the place where cuffs have chaffed him raw. The wildlings mouth is still slack in shock when Jon reaches for him again, fingers small against the curve of Tormund's elbow. 

"Your people need a leader." The boy's voice is soft but urging, and Tormund wonders if it's his imagination or Jon's hand squeezing his arm harder as if to drive the point home. "And they need to get south of the wall before it's too late. We don't have much time and they have less. The walkers are coming and they'll hit your people first. I'm not asking you to make peace to save your skin. Make peace to save your people."

Giantsbane isn't expecting the little speech to ignite a fire in his chest but it _does_. The crow has a point, and a damned good one a that. He would be a fool to refuse the only hope his people have of a future, and just as Snow says, it would be cowardice if he didn't at least try. The wildling relents with a soft huff, large fingers curling around Jon's wrist. He could probably break it if he squeezed too hard but Snow lets him take it nonetheless, just as he had last night. 

He seems to realize he's won.

"Most of them are at Hardhome. You know where that is?" To Tormund's genuine shock Snow knows of the place, already doing maths in his head to figure everything they would need to get there, how long it might take. He keeps talking and talking and Giantsbane doesn't care about any of it. He has only one thing on his mind.

"You're coming with me."

Jon stops talking finally, his mouth a downward slope. For a moment he looks as though he might try to object but Tormund doesn't give him the chance. 

"You're Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." The wildling tugs at Snow's wrist, knows he should probably let go but it's the first real human contact he's had in weeks. "They need to hear it from you. They need to know the ships they are boarding won’t be torched in the middle of the sea." Tormund leans down, gets a wild thrill when Jon presses up to challenge him. Their foreheads butt, and Tormund smirks because he can already see he's the victor of this round. "You come with me, or I don't go."

Jon takes his hand, and it seals the deal.

* * *

They sail to Hardhome in ships much larger than most wildling homes, riding waves like nothing Tormund has ever seen before. Not many come with them, but according to Jon they only need enough men to move the boats. When it is late Tormund takes Snow aside. Air is colder on the water but they stand near the railings anyways. Tormund watches as the wind plays with dark curls and wonders if they are soft as they look.

"Do you really believe your friend back there is going to open the gates when we return?" He eyes Jon carefully for any small indications of doubt but the crow shows none. Snow is staring out at the waves that lap up the side of their boat with an intense sort of determination. Tormund doesn't know whether to call it confidence or ignorance.

"Ser Alisser doesn't like me much, I know that. But he is a man of his word and he said he'd open the gate, so he'll open it." There's a short pause before he speaks again, a bit more reassuring this time. "I wouldn't lead your people into slaughter. It would be cowardly and dishonorable." The boy is still looking at him, hands stuffed deep into fur lined pockets. "I don't see you as the enemy anymore. I just want for us to live." 

Jon thinks of Ygritte and his heart aches. She never had a chance, not really. But he is going to make sure the rest of her people are given one, starting with the Giantsbane she seemed so fond of. 

They dock at Hardhome only hours later. Tormund is prepared to lead the way and a lesser man would have allowed it. They are his people after all, and it's only to be expected that they'd be hostile towards any crow that sets foot on land. Jon Snow is not a lesser man. He is a foolish one, foolish and brave and if he isn't careful he'll end up in an early grave. Tormund would admire his courage if he wasn't suddenly so disturbed by the thought of Jon bleeding out in the snow. 

All eyes are on them now. It's too late to turn back. Tormund glances to the crow at his side. Jon's face is drawn in anticipation, pink lips a thin line of dread. 

"You trust me Jon Snow?"

The boy almost stumbles at the pure absurdity of it. If he didn't trust Tormund he wouldn't have come. And he'd never have been confident enough to remove the man's shackles alone in that room as he did only days ago.

It only dawns on him now that this could have been a mistake. He doesn't know Tormund's mind. The man is a wildling, he's been their prisoner for weeks now. He could strike Jon down at any moment and be back to his people. Jon takes a steadying breath and casts those thoughts aside. He thinks of how Tormund looked at him that night they shared ale, the man's arm secure and protective across his wavering shoulders. Whatever happens will happen. As it is, he trusts Tormund to be on his side. 

"Does that make me a fool?"

The ginger seems pleased with this answer, looks over at Jon just long enough to flash him a toothy grin. "We are fools together now." Their shoulders brush once as they walk. Tormund is headed towards a man who wears a giants skull for a mask. The lord of bones they had called him. Jon remembers well enough. Ygritte had saved his skin back then. She isn't here now.

Snow looks him up and down carefully, fingers flexing on instinct. The lord of bones had tried to kill him once, definitely not a person to be reasoned with.

Without any other options it seems as though Tormund is going to try talking with him anyways. 

"Lord of Bones. Been a long time." It's not a warm greeting but it's friendly by freefolk standards. The so called lord of bones isn't near as friendly. He looks at the two of them, and Jon can only imagine the scorn on his face. When he talks, there is malice in his words.

"Last time I saw you the little crow was your prisoner. The other way around now. What happened?" This man doesn't want to talk, only insult. Jon half expects Tormund to take his bait but the ginger stands tall beside him, undeterred. It's a fruitless conversation. Tormund asks to see the elders and the lord of bones rebuffs him with more accusations, talks of how Mance's army had been run through and slaughtered by some southern king. Tormund has more patience than Jon would have ever given him credit for. 

"Why aren't you in chains?" The bone clad wildling takes a menacing step towards them, eyeing Jon as if this is the first time he's noticed that they walked here together as free men. Hard to believe a wildling and a crow could ever get along so well. In Jon's opinion it's just the red hair. 

They continue to go around in circles mostly, the lord of bones tossing out insults every chance he gets while the rest of the wildlings surrounding them sing of other complaints. It finally breaks down when Jon reiterates that they've only come to talk. The lord of bones spits at their feet, leveling Tormund with one of the most hateful looks Jon has ever seen. The mans face doesn't have to be visible, his eyes are alight with brimstone. 

"Is that right? You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund." The bone man raises his staff to them and Jon feels Giantsbane go rigid at his side. He must know what is coming.

The staff pokes him square in the chest, hard enough to bruise.

"And when you’re done talking, do you get down on your knees and suck his cock--" Tormund doesn't allow for him to finish speaking such disrespect. He yanks the staff from slow hands, swings it so hard into the man's face that Jon hears every crack, the mask and his jaw as they break. That would've been enough for Jon but Tormund makes a brutal noise and rears back again. Blood splatters hot at their feet. Jon closes his eyes and waits for it to be over. 

It's silent once Tormund finally stops swinging. No one has anything to say anymore, and they all flinch when Tormund thrusts the staff into hands of the nearest wildling. 

"Gather the elders, and let’s talk." He says it breathlessly this time, and returns to Jon's side with his face dripping red. Jon can't risk saying anything or god forbid touch him, but he does send Tormund a grateful little smirk. Snow hates to admit it but he is glad to see the lord of bones gone from this world. In some dreams he still sees Qhorin Halfhand dying, slaughtered like an animal by one of his own.

The irony is fitting.

* * *

Their next talk goes about the same. Jon's words fall on deaf ears. No one cares about what this new head crow has to say. If anything they are most likely thinking about how they'll kill him and take the fancy boats he's provided. It's everything Tormund expected when they boarded up to come here. Standing in this room now it's hard to remember why he'd felt so compelled to make the trip for these people. Jon offers them dragon glass and they refuse it. He talks and they scoff in his face.

Karsi is a spearwife. Tormund has known her for a long time, and just as expected she cares little for Jon's promises but she seems more understanding of their reality. They are lucky she's decided to hear them out. The conversation is tense but it does move forward. They discuss marching the wildlings south, fighting white walkers that are sure to be coming for them. Jon shows off the bag of dragonglass, promising to pass it out among them if they are willing. It's going almost smoothly until Loboda steps forward with a crucial question. He is the elder Thenn who Tormund has been keeping a close eye on. Knowing them there could be bloodshed at any moment. 

"Where is Mance?" 

Giantsbane cringes at the question. He had known this was a gamble, more risk than anything. It's definitely over now. Loboda would see them all dead before he joined forces with the crow who killed their leader. Jon sounds just as desolate and resigned, but even so he answers he with the truth. 

"He died."

The crowd around them bursts into a flurry of movement and accusation. Tormund shifts closer to his crow, knows he can't protect the man if push really does come to shove but he can damn well die trying.

"How?" The room falls into silence, awaiting the fate of Mance Rayder who is responsible for uniting them all. 

Jon takes a long moment to square his shoulders, a small preparation for the fallout he knows to be coming. Tormund has inched closer to him, slow and subtle. Jon hopes they spare him if things go sour.

"I put an arrow through his heart."

The explosion is instantaneous. Jon's barely gotten the words out and people are already brandishing their weapons. The crow doesn't even bother drawing his sword. He closes his eyes, knowing he'd never make it out, no matter how many lives he claimed by trying. 

"I say we send the Lord Commander back to Castle Black with no eyes!"

Jon's accepted his fate, but Tormund will not. He steps forward, puts himself in between his people and his crow. A human barrier to anyone who dares come for Jon. 

"None of you saw Mance die! I did." Tormund's voice bellows throughout the cabin, effectively bringing about a tense sort of quiet. He takes the opening for what it is, their only chance for survival. It's usually Snow with the rousing speeches but this time all depends on him. Jon's voice is useless here. "The Southern King who broke our army, Stannis, wanted to burn him alive to send him a message. Jon Snow defied that cunt’s orders. His arrow was _mercy_. What he did took courage, and that’s what we need today: the courage to make peace with men we’ve been fighting for generations." It's not a long speech but it's a sincere one. And even still it's met with dissent. 

"I lost my father, my uncle, and 2 brothers fighting the damn crows." Karsi spits the words with such venom, Tormund can feel it in his bones. There is nothing more he knows to say.

It's a good thing the crow has such a silver tongue. Good thing no one's cut it from his head yet.

"I’m not asking you to forget your dead. I’ll never forget mine." Jon must have felt her spite as well, because his words are just as fierce. "I lost 50 brothers the night that Mance attacked the wall. But I’m asking you to think about your children now." Tormund can hear the emotion heavy in Jon's words, the urgency he feels to protect everyone. Who'd have thought a crow would ever care so much for the fate of the free folk. 

"They’ll never have children of their own if we don’t band together. The Long Night is coming and the dead come with it. No clan can stop them. The free folk can’t stop them. The Night’s Watch can’t stop them. And all the southern kings can’t stop them. Only together, all of us, and even then it might not be enough, but at least then we’ll give the fuckers a fight." Jon tells it as it is, no promises of victory. It is the best option though, their only hope in the hands of a crow. 

Tormund holds his breath and waits for the axe to fall. 

To his astonishment the axe does not fall. Instead he opens his eyes to see his brethren nodding to each other, all eyes on Tormund, Karsi and the crow that's come to save them. It seems the tide is turning. They will follow their chieftain, no matter what her decision may be. 

"You vouch for this man, Tormund?"

Tormund heaves a sigh of relief, happy to be asked a question he actually knows the answer to. "He’s prettier than both my daughters, but he knows how to fight. He’s young, but he knows how to lead. He didn’t have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us. And we need him." Ah. The answer comes easier than he expected it would, and he means every word of it. With each day that passes Jon Snow only does more to prove himself. He glances over at the crow to see that Jon almost looks proud, might've even smiled if they weren't still surrounded by uncertainty. 

"My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow." Loboda is staring at the two of them, but at Jon mostly. Tormund reckons the Thenn would like to put that axe he's holding into Snow's chest if given the chance. Tormund also reckons he'd kill the bastard before allowing that to happen. Giantsbane finds himself stepping forward to shield the crow from view just as Karsi decides to speak on their behalf.

"So would mine, but fuck 'em, they’re dead."

Finally some fucking progress.

* * *

In the end Loboda and his Thenns refuse to join them but Tormund wouldn't exactly call that a loss. Or he wouldn't if the circumstances were different. As it stands according to Jon they will eventually find themselves slaughtered and joining the ranks of the wights. There is nothing to be done about that now. They tried their best and it's time to focus on the free folk who are willing to be saved. 

Boat loading is slow work but they keep a steady pace. 

Giantsbane is just setting a raft off when he hears footsteps approaching his left. Ah, he knows those footfalls by now, surely his crow coming to brood some more despite their small victory. Just as expected Jon appears at his side only seconds later, nose tinted pink from the biting cold. 

"How many are with us? 5000?" His voice is hoarse and faint but somehow still holds that constant note of determination. Tormund isn't surprised by that anymore. The crow will stop when he's dead, not a second before. 

"I ain't good at countin'." Jon should have known better than to ask but Tormund doesn't hold it against him. The crow is in a bad way right now, worry lines leaving deep creases in his brow. Tormund has the fleeting urge to rub them away but now is not the time or place. 

"We’re leaving too many behind." It's a hopeless protest. Jon wants so badly to save them all. The boy has to learn that most times in life that's simply an impossible task. It's astounding he hasn't learned by now. 

"The free folk are stubborn." Tormund offers the words as if they should be helpful, make Jon feel better about his inability to round them up. "You know how long it took Mance to band them together." Giantsbane pauses, gloved fingers caressing the length of Jon's forearm. It's the tiniest bit of contact but Jon feels soothed by it. "20 fucking years."

"And he knew them better than I ever will." The crow murmurs in quiet resignation, leaning into the touch until it's gone. They can't be seen acting too friendly, especially not in this climate. 

Tormund is waiting for the next boat, preparing to load another batch of people. "They’re running out of food and there’s nothing to hunt. They’ll come around." He leaves Jon with a pat on the shoulder, going to help his people onto ships that will hopefully take them to safety and make the entire trip worthwhile. 

Jon is helping the next bunch of wildling women onto a boat when it starts. Things begin slowly, dogs barking at the wind, pulling on leashes and snarling to the sky. He can feel a change in air pressure, suddenly so much more aware of the fog that has slowly surrounded them. A bitter wind whips through the air, unnatural in every way. It's eerie, and even the animals know it. There is a chorus of whimpering, dogs who'd been barking so savagely before going quite all at once. Jon glances around to see that everyone has stopped, rigid and unsettled as the mist thickens.

Suddenly there is shouting for the gates to be closed, and like a switch has been flipped everyone springs into action. Jon shoves another boat away from land, glancing around for Tormund to see that he too has just sent off a raft full of children, now listening intently to see what might be happening back at the gates. There is a distant howling, a haunting sound.

_A death sound._

People are screaming where they'd been locked out, unfortunate souls left on the wrong side of the gate. It's piercing and gut wrenching and then its over, and somehow the silence it brings is worse.

Jon cannot see what happens, but he imagines it to be his worst fear come true. There is a flood of free folk headed his way, frantic after witnessing first hand what awaits them if they stay. Jon braces his shoulders and starts handing out orders as he was raised to do. 

"Hold the line! Hold the line!" Snow leads another group onto whatever boats they have left, hoping desperately rowers feel the urgency and know to go _faster_. People are shouting of wights attacking the gate, and Jon knows then that Hardhome is already lost.

"Lord commander!" A brother of the night's watch is running towards him, others right on his heel. Jon doesn't have time to lead them right now.

"Get people to the ship and come back for me!" Jon waves the man away, not noticing the way a pair of green eyes search him out in the crowd. Tormund can always find Jon's voice among the masses, would know the sound of it anywhere by now. 

The crow has a habit of being foolish in battle. 

Giantsbane gets one last bunch into a makeshift raft before handing the job off to one of the men in black Jon brought along. Karsi has already made it to Snow's side, no doubt trying to get one last assurance that the child she'd just put on his boat would live even if they did not. Tormund doesn't blame her.

"Snow!" Giantsbane shoulders his way to the boy, latching onto his arm with a near shovel sized hand. Jon already knows what he's going to say, surely he'd heard all the panicked talk around them.

"If they get through, everyone dies!" Tormund catches his gaze for a moment, just long enough to commit the shape of Jon's face to memory, just in case they never get the chance again.

And then the boy's gone, calling for his Nights Watch and leading them into battle. Tormund follows him as everyone does, a little closer than the rest. 

By the time they make it to the gate it's already been breached, a huge hole knocked into the middle spewing wights by the second. Things get hectic after that. Tormund's killed so many he's lost count. The man pauses long enough to swipe hair from his face but that's all it takes. He blinks and suddenly Jon's gone. Giantsbane catches just a glimpse of his tousled curls vanishing into the cabin they'd met in earlier, a cabin that is throwing up a suspicious amount of smoke. It takes Tormund only seconds to realize what the crow is doing.

Fucking _dragonglass._

He feels a near desperate urge to chase after the fool, but then who would keep watch over this fucking gate? They may have covered that blasted hole but it wont hold for long and when it does eventually cave the battle will be lost, if it isn't so already.

Tormund takes one last fleeting look at the cabin, flames already licking up its side. His heart constricts at the sight of it, reminds him achingly of Ygritte. She'd looked so strong going off to fight on that wretched night, all the wrath in the world wrapped up in one little wildling. With a bow in hand she charged into the thick of it and that had been the last he saw of her, red hair whipping in the wind. 

No wonder she and Jon got along so well. 

Giantsbane thinks of what he's lost, what he's still got to lose. It dulls the exertion, allows him to put all frustration into destroying wights that have infiltrated through the gate, all the while adamantly listening for any sign of his crow being in trouble. 

He hears a thud from that direction, can only imagine it to be Jon's body falling from some great height.

It's a short time later that he finally catches sight of the boy again but to his great horror Jon is stumbling through the rubble, sword clattering out in front of him on impact. There is a peculiar white walker on his heels, and even though its moving at a slow menacing pace there is no way possible that Tormund could make it to them in time.

Jon scrambles for his sword, and the walker takes another staggering step towards him. Tormund watches, gutless as the creature raises up its weapon for a killing blow.

Giantsbane makes an anguished noise when the spear comes down, knees nearly giving out as Jon manages to meet the attack with Longclaw. There is another moment of uncertainty, Tormund waiting with bated breath as they exchange swings. His legs carry him forward on pure instinct.

As it turns out Jon doesn't need his help. Tormund witnesses the wight shatter from a well placed blow. Longclaw must be forged of dragonglass, a fact that he will thank the gods for later. Snow hits his knees as the wildling reaches him, breathless and trembling. He can still feel eyes on them, knows the Night King watches from a perch on the mountain. Tormund touches his face, framing the crows cheeks with each hand to keep Jon looking at him instead of the monster orchestrating all this death around them. 

"Come on now Snow, we have to go before we find ourselves fucked into joining in that bastards army." Tormund gently pats the boys cheek before tossing one of Jon's arms over his neck, effectively shouldering the crows weight. He carries them back towards the ship that way, not slowing even when he passes Karsi's mutilated body in the rubble. 

More wights are coming, falling now from the tops of cliffs only to reanimate and join in the fray. Edd appears on Jon's other side and together they stagger towards the boats. Tormund hears more than sees when the gate finally collapses. He suspects they would have been over run if not for Wun Wun. The giant flanks to their left, clearing a path for them by using a piece of the cabin to knock away oncoming walkers.

They don't stop running until they've reached the end of the dock, each of them taking a leap of faith onto the last boat just before it becomes overrun by the undead. Any poor bastard still on the shore is doomed. Tormund watches despondent as several of his brethren are brutally slaughtered before his eyes. It goes on until there is nothing left moving on land, the waves washed red with blood. 

Jon inhales sharply beside him, and distantly Tormund registers the feeling of Snow's shoulder brushing against his. No one would notice it, not now. Not when the Night King has come forth to raise the newest recruits in his army. The creature locks eyes with Jon, deliberate and mocking. His crow stares back, unmoving as stone. Together they watch, absolutely mortified as the dead on the beach reanimate. This is the power of the Night King. This is what awaits them if they lose.

Jon stares long after everyone else has averted their gaze, until the fog over takes them and seeing becomes impossible. They make it back to the ship. No one needs orders to be given, men already scramble to set sail and move away from this cursed piece of land. Tormund presses a hand to the small of Snow's back, leading him down into the cabin they were meant to share. There would have been another person staying in the room with them but not that many were saved. They have the tiny space to themselves for the few days it will take to sail back into Castle Black. Tormund puts Jon to bed wordlessly, tugging away layers of fur until the boy is able to lay bare and comfortable. 

"We did good today Snow. You might not feel that way now but saving some is better than none, and we did that because of _you_." Tormund rests a hand on the crows shoulder, fingertips tracing idly across a faded scar on his bicep: he'd gotten it from rough housing with Rob and Theon. 

Jon doesn't seem to hear him. "We lost so many." The whisper is ragged, shaking as if they'd lost _everything._ Tormund knows his grief, feels it seeping into pores and making home among all the other losses. Today was bad but it could have been worse. Jon is heavy and warm against his arm. Giantsbane imagines that place empty, has to scrub a hand over his face to hide the dreadful swell of emotion bursting against his ribcage.

They have no pillows, and if after a while Jon's head finds its way into the wildling's lap neither of them mention it. The night will be sleepless, quiet is the closest they will come to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter will feature some alone time for our boys before they arrive back at Castle Black. All comments and kudos are especially appreciated <3


	3. Lying to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their teeth almost clank together with the force of it, but Tormund's lips are warm even if they are chapped. This isn't at all what Jon imagined it would be like.
> 
> It's better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer! I own nothing. Please Enjoy!!

_As we lie in bed, I feel lonely_  
_Though we're young, I feel eighty years old_  
_And your arms around me are keeping me warm_  
_But baby, I'm still feeling cold_

-Keaton Henson

* * *

"Have ye noticed that Jon hasn't said much since leaving Hardhome?" The mangy looking crow they call Edd brings this concern to Tormund a day after they've set sail headed back towards Castle Black. It's not news to the wildling. He shares a cabin with the boy, knows there's been nothing but quiet since the Night King stared him down on that dock. 

"Aye, I suppose I've noticed that. Wouldn't fret too much over it though." Truth be told Tormund was beginning to worry himself but he figured it would be better to give the boy a little space after all they've been through recently. Giantsbane will see this resolved when there is no one else around to hear. Until then Jon doesn't need his men questioning what state of mind their leader is in. "Knowing your Lord Commander he's probably just brooding extra hard considering our getting back all depends on that one sour crow they call Alliser." 

A spark of understanding lights the man's eye but Edd doesn't budge. He stands a little longer, staring Tormund down as though making a crucial decision. Can he trust this wildling that Jon is so fond of? The ginger watches and he waits, relieved when Edd finally gives a small incline of his head and continues on, evidently having made up his mind on the matter. 

Giantsbane bides his time, stealing glimpses of Jon from the corner of his eye until finally the day is half over and most of the men are preoccupied, a few busy at station but the majority under deck in their cabins or scattered through the tiny mess hall. The Lord Commander is standing alone at the railings, arms wrapped tightly around his middle to brace from the cold while looking out at sea. It's a pretty picture he'll have to admit, the dark and brooding crow silhouetted against a calming ocean backdrop. Too bad he's about to go and ruin it.

"I gotta say boy, I've had the silent treatment before but never like this." The wildling stands only an inch or two away, an offer for contact that doesn't go unnoticed by Jon. There is a moment of hesitation, and then the familiar warmth of Snow's bicep brushing against his, their shoulders knocking together as the boat sways with the current. 

"One of your crow friends asked me about you today." Giantsbane allows the words to settle between them. Jon knows he's waiting for some sort of response but the boy doesn't acknowledge him other than leaning into Tormund's shoulder as though it's suddenly too much effort to keep upright on his own. 

The wildling glances around, carefully scanning for any prying eyes that might be on them. He finds nothing, and decides that's good enough reason for him to risk pulling the crow closer. It's chilly on the water, and the wind is especially cutting as night falls. Tormund uses his coat to shield them both, an arm carefully placed around Jon's waist to support the extra weight. 

"C'mon now, if you don't start talking they'll take you for a loon." Tormund's chin would be resting on Jon's shoulder had he not been the one holding them both up. As it is he's still able to lean in, lips almost brushing the outer shell of Jon's ear.  
"Or even worse, maybe they'll think you've turned into a savage wildling." 

The boy actually makes a sound this time, a small amused huff at Tormund's bad joke. Leather shifts beneath the wildlings palm, Jon twisting to finally look him in the eyes. Snow has this strange expression on his face, not quite afraid. His eyes shine with something different, more like he's worried sick. 

"Ah, there he is. Tell me what's eatin' you Jon Snow. Maybe I could do something about it." 

Jon is shaking his head before the wildling can finish getting the words out. Tormund feels the motion in his beard, black curls moving against tangles of red. Anyone else might've thought the crow was only being difficult but Tormund knows. By now they've been through so much together he just _knows_. There is something going on in the boys mind and he hasn't found a way to put it into words yet. So Tormund does the only thing he can. He gives the crow time, watches seagulls fly over head and keeps an eye out for clouds of interesting shape. Evening slowly turns to dusk, and the men on shift switch hands. Through it all no one approaches them, seeming to sense that whatever moment they're having must be important.

The temperature is dropping fast by the time Jon finally speaks up, voice low and wrought with uncertainty. 

"I looked him in the eyes back there, the Night King." Jon adds the name as an afterthought, like it would be possible Tormund to not know who he's talking about. "I looked him in the eyes and I felt.... _something_." One of the boys hands drift up to his chest, fingertips resting just below a steadily pumping heart. The memory is clear, more vivid than even his father's face. That creature had looked right at him. Their eyes connected and Jon swears there'd been a moment when he felt his blood stand still. It was as though someone plunged a dagger into his chest. 

"What kind of something?" The words are an encouraging rumble. Giantsbane is using this opportunity to stare at his crow, eyes tracing the high arch of Jon's cheeks. There's a bruise on his chin, most likely suffered in the fall he'd taken back at Hardhome. Tormund has the near irresistible urge to try and kiss it better. 

"I felt like...I was going to _die_. And at first I figured it was just the adrenaline or some shock over watching the dead rise up but time has passed and the feelings haven't gone away." His chest still hurts in that place just below his sternum, maybe even right over it. A faint but constant throb, just painful enough that it refuses to be ignored. 

Unconsciously the wildlings grip tightens. "Yer not going to die, Jon. At least not any time soon if I have a say in the matter." It's Tormund's first instinct to reassure the boy, regardless of worry pulling tight in his gut. Not that Jon's fear is founded. Giantsbane doesn't rightly believe Snow is dying just because he and the Night King had extended eye contact. The ginger thinks back, a memory flashing behind his eyelids. _Jon crumpled to the ground, unmoving and damn near helpless as a white walker stands over his body._

The recollection sends a shiver of dread down the wildlings spine. 

"Yeah, sure. I just...I'm scared." Jon speaks the words as a shameful confession and they wash over Tormund like a sheet of ice. The brash and brave Jon Snow who runs headlong into every battle, who tells other men not to fear while caring so little for his own well being is sitting here afraid. It only dawns on him now that he'd thought the crow invincible. Snow knows he's expected to be fearless, puts on a good show. In this moment though he's fracturing in Tormund's hands, unable to hold his head up because he feels he's letting the man down. "I don't want to become one of those things, Tormund." The statement seems to echo on the water, leaving a raw dreadful feeling in the pit of Tormund's stomach. He doesn't like to hear his crow crackling with fright, has never seen Snow like this before, pale faced and clammy. Jon looked better than this that night he'd stumbled piss drunk to sit outside the wildlings cell. 

There's an insistent tugging on his hand, the feel of small fingers closing around a much larger palm. The ginger glances down to meet a troubled gaze, eyes black as the darkest nights. Jon looks strangely small here, caught between Tormund and the railing, an entire ocean at his back.

"You have to promise me you won't let that happen." Tormund opens his mouth to protest but Jon's already shushing him. "I know you aim to protect me, but I also know from experience that we can't protect everything we love, no matter how we may try." Jon thinks of his father and Catelyn who'd resented him so much. He doesn't hold that against her anymore. She might not have given him affection but she gave him family. Snow remembers all of his siblings so clearly. Robb's face after a successful hunt, Sansa using a needle and thread sitting comfortable in the courtyard, little Arya sneaking off to watch Sir Roderick practice sword with the boys. He hasn't heard from them in ages, tries not to think of them as corpses rotting in the ground. It's been said that Bran and Rickon died at Winterfell, burned to death by Theon Greyjoy.

Jon always knew he was a snake.

_That's a lie_. Jon had thought him a brother, just as much as Rob, Bran and Rickon. When news broke of the Greyjoys taking Winterfell he'd refused to believe it, punched a man in the face for even suggesting it to be true. The grief of betrayal bubbles like bile in the back of his throat

And then there's Robb who he'd looked up to the most. His oldest brother never once judged him for being a bastard, had been his biggest supporter growing up. Jon wanted to _be_ him. In the end none of that mattered. When Robb needed him most he was off serving the Night's Watch. People say the young wolf suffered a brutal ending, one wrought with grief and betrayal. They said a lot of things, the kind of unimaginable horror that sent Jon gagging into the woods when he heard because surely none of that happened to Robb who smiled like the sun.

Jon should have been there to protect the future of their house but he wasn't.

"You told me once that this is a cruel world." Tormund reaches up to touch the boys face, and it's only when Jon feels his cheek relax under warm fingertips that he realizes how tense he'd been. "If I die you must promise me here and now that you'll be sure to burn my body." Jon catches the wildlings hand, holds it in place against his jaw. "I don't want to become one of them Tormund, you have to swear on all that is important that you'll do your best for me. I wont be a pawn in the Night Kings army. I fear that probably more than death itself." The words are heavy in the air between them. Jon waits for the wildling to promise, and Tormund is wishing he'd somehow gone about this differently. 

"Everything we love." Giantsbane repeats carefully, moving away from Jon for the first time in hours to get a proper look at the boy "Should I take that to mean you believe I have feelings for you or something crow?"

He's never seen Jon back pedal so fast. "Tormund that's not what I-" 

"Because I damn well do," The wildling cuts him off, both hands coming to shake Jon at the shoulders. "I have feelings about you Jon Snow." The crow doesn't have time to process, he stares at Tormund with his pretty little mouth slack in shock. Tormund doesn't know why that pisses him off so much but it _does_. What right does Jon have to ask this of him? Talking about how he's going to die and Tormund should burn his body. Doesn't the fool know by now that he's the closest thing Tormund has to family anymore. There's no guarantee his daughters are alive, it's been years since he's seen them. All his clan is scattered and blood kin gone, even the small family he'd made for himself all died in the filth somewhere. He'll be damned if Jon becomes another person he's had to bury.

"It's just as Ygritte said, you know absolutely nothing if you think i'd agree to this." Even Tormund is stricken by the ferocity of his growl. He hadn't meant the words to come out as harshly as they had. It seems the thought of burying Snow has made him a tad bit emotional. 

Jon is taken back by the mention of Ygritte, upper lip curling into a scowl at hearing her name thrown around in a fight she's not even part of. 

"Don't you bring her into this!" The crow places his hands on Tormund's chest, and they've been getting along so well lately the wildling is not expecting it when Jon shoves him. The suddenness of it catches Tormund off guard. He stumbles, and probably would have fallen flat on his ass if not for the railing. He watches realization flicker across Jon's face, eyebrows drawing together regretfully. The expression is gone quickly as it came though, replaced by a sour glare. 

Tormund could answer him with anger, that would be easy. He's been angry his whole life, resentful about the Night's Watch and fucking southern kings with their walls, taking land that doesn't belong to them. He's been furious about food shortages and people gone missing in the dark. He felt savage when the battle at Castle Black was lost and with it his dearest friend, watching some of the best he's ever known bleed to death in vein. These are things to feel rage over, but Jon getting a little handsy? That's nothing to waste his anger on. Tormund will save his wrath for the Night King when the time finally comes, until then he can handle Jon Snow just as well with words. 

"Come on Commander Crow, if you want to be physical we can do that where the crew won't see us." The wildling gestures vaguely around them and Jon notices for the first time that all movement has ceased, every eye trained on the Lord Commander and his favorite of the free folk. Jon doesn't blame them, it's only to be expected that they would get bored after so many days on the water. He understands their curiosity but ducks his head all the same, cheeks burning bright with embarrassment. It's frustrating and he might even be tempted to argue more but Tormund is already walking away _thank god_ , striding off in the direction of their shared cabin.

There's nothing left for Jon to do but follow him.

He gets only a few steps into their room before the door swings shut behind him. Tormund is standing there, towering over Jon at his full height. The boy feels an instant urge to step back, eyes raking over broad shoulders and hair red as the leaves that grow on weirwood trees back home. It's dark in this room. Giantsbane strikes a candle near them and Jon is strangely mesmerized by the blue of his gaze, eyes that seem to dance with the small flame. Snow straightens his shoulders as if to illustrate how unafraid he is. He should be, but isn't. Jon knows the wildling could snap him with one swift movement but he doesn't worry. If Tormund wanted him dead Hardhome had been the place to make it happen. Instead the wildling had gone to great lengths ensuring he made it back to the boats in time. 

Snow is expecting some scathing words or maybe even a few threats about learning to keep his hands to himself but none of that comes to pass. Giantsbane only stares, a tender sort of grief on his face.

"You once told me you loved her, didn't you?" The boy opens his mouth to respond, probably with indignation considering the furious curve of his cheek, but whatever he might've said is lost as Tormund's words register. Jon blinks at him, distraught at the mention of a conversation that seems ancient. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks back, but to Jon that feels like a lifetime ago. 

Giantsbane draws closer, advancing on Jon until the boy's back finds the wall with a _thud_. He's pinned there between Tormund and the unforgiving wood. "You loved her and you burned her." The wildling's tone is not accusing but Jon flinches as if he's been struck, shoulders slackened like all air has been knocked from his lungs. Slowly the piss and vinegar pours out of him, leaving behind a hollow shell in its place. Snow sags against the wall. Tormund looks into the dark abyss of his gaze and asks again.

"What was it _like?_ "

Jon is cowed by the question. He doesn't enjoy recalling that certain trip beyond the wall, so much that his knees give out and Tormund's hands are the only thing to stop him from sinking down to the floor. There is a part of him that doesn't want to answer at all, and he has the fleeting impulse to run from this conversation and never look back. But that's not the part of him that shows, his father raised him better. Jon finds his footing again, ignoring the way Tormund's grip on his shoulder tightens to the point of leaving marks. He might be named Snow but he's a Stark at heart, so he takes his time and works out a way to respond with honor. 

"It was like setting fire to the brightest parts of myself." Jon ducks away from Tormund's hold, unable to look at his face and talk about the women they'd loved. "I watched her hair catch flame and I felt everything good smother in my chest. No doubt she couldn't feel it, she'd been dead for hours." He sits on the edge of his cot, voice raw in anguish. "I felt it though, every inch of her skin as it burned away. I can still remember how it smelled." Jon sounds sick with the memory of it.

"And is that what you want for me Jon Snow?" Giantsbane steps toward his crow, boots heavy against the floor. They lock eyes as Tormund lowers himself painstakingly slow onto the floor between Jon's legs. And he knows he said he'd never kneel for this boy but Jon's lip is trembling because he's goddamned terrified and Tormund has to do _something_. Even now he's eye level with the crow. There is nowhere to look but his face. "You want me to lay you down on a bed of straw and set fire to it, stand and watch while your pretty little curls go up in flames."

Jon doesn't know how to respond to that, but he doesn't have to because Tormund's head is tilting dangerously close to his own and -

_Oh._

Their teeth almost clank together with the force of it, but Tormund's lips are warm even if they are chapped. This isn't at all what Jon imagined it would be like.

It's better. Tormund's beard tickles his cheek, callused fingertips digging into the nape of Jon's neck. It anchors him to the moment, and finally, _finally_ Jon finds his wits enough to press back into those lips. 

He remembers himself to be wearing many furs, so he's rightfully shocked by how quickly Tormund finds skin. The wildling is relentless now that they've begun. Snow absently wonders if Tormund has thought of this as often as he has, but then there's a hand at his groin and Jon can't think much of anything anymore. 

They have devastatingly good sex. Tormund is careful, they both know as a crow Jon's only ever broken his oath once back in that cave with Ygritte to guide him. What they are doing now doesn't technically count against those vows but it's illegal on Jon's side of the wall. That doesn't matter here. Giantsbane would break a thousand southern laws to have the crow squirming beneath him, pale cheeks dusted pink. Tormund takes him furiously. It slows a little when he pushes Jon down onto the cot, making eye contact with the crow as he slips in again. From this angle the wildling can see everything, and Jon might've felt more vulnerable if he wasn't so busy feeling good. Tormund leans down, nose buried in the crook of Jon's neck. He inhales as if trying to commit the crows smell to memory, lips leaving a trail of tiny bruises in their wake.

"I care about you Snow." The words are whispered so quietly that for a moment Jon isn't sure he heard them at all. Tormund's voice comes again, louder but breaking. "I care so fucking much you damn lousy crow. Don't you know that by now?" 

No, Jon hadn't realized until this very moment. He really knows nothing. Looking back the signs were all there but he hadn't noticed them, always believing his feelings to be one sided where this particular ginger was concerned. And then for a time he'd thought maybe he was transferring his feelings for Ygritte because he missed her so much but that's not it. He knew on the night spent sitting beside the wildling's cell that everything he felt for Tormund was authentic and real, all because Tormund made it so. How could he not grow fond of this fiery giant who takes none of his shit and shows him the way when it feels as though all's been lost. The man had reached for him that night and he hasn't stopped since.

It's breathtaking to finally hear the words said out loud, sends a near violent shudder down Jon's spine. Tormund has feelings for him, and yet he already knows with an eerie certainty that it won't be enough to buy his life.

The boy frowns, soft and sad. Even with pleasure clouding his thoughts Tormund can tell that something is wrong. "What's on your mind little crow?" Jon's bottom lip seems to quiver. Tormund kisses him until it stills.

"I care about you too, but I don't think it's going to matter much in the end." The words are a scathing truth and for a moment Snow fears he's been too harsh. Tormund shifts but doesn't draw away and Jon's reminded that if anyone can handle harsh it's this wildling whose teeth find a spot between Jon's jaw and neck, so sensitive he almost forgets how little time they have left.

The crow climbs atop sweat slick skin, presses open mouth kisses to the hollow of Tormund's throat. "It won't be enough to save me." He whispers breathless against the shell of Tormund's ear. Snow pulls back to look at him then, plagued by the terrible idea that this could be their first and only night together. He's going to die by some dagger and who will Tormund have then? Where would he go? Will anyone protect the free folk or will they die out with him?

Jon never voices any of this but Tormund must see it in his face because he stares up at the crow with such naked terror. Snow presses a bare palm against the wildling's chest, feels how his heart is fluttering beneath muscle and bone. Jon doesn't realize the man is shaking until he raises both hands to capture the crows face. Tormund pulls him down for a desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue. If Jon didn't know any better he'd think the ginger's cheeks were wet. 

They don't stop until Tormund's hips are burning with over exertion and Jon's sensitive to the point of aching. Snow lays with his head over the wildling's chest, eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Before drifting off Giantsbane reaches through the darkness, fingertips hot and pulsating as they push sweat soaked hair away from Jon's face. Snow can't be right about dying. Everyone thinks that from time to time. Tormund breathes deep, but it feels as though something wells up in his throat. "You're so damn pretty, and you're going to be _fine_. Tell me you're going to make it Jon." Giantsbane knows he could survive without the crow but at this point would he really want to?

Snow turns to face him. The boy struggles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as if to catch his breath.

"We're going to be okay, you and me. We'll make it through this and our people will survive long after the dead have stopped walking." Jon mumbles the words with sleepy confidence but they feel heavy on his tongue, like a lie to his father when he was young. As if to try and make up for it, Snow finishes with something he fiercely wishes to be true. "You and the free folk are going to be fine."

Tormund smiles gratefully beside him. Jon is awake long enough for the wildlings breathing to even, a soft snore starting up soon after. The sound is bizarrely soothing. A tiny candle still washes the room in a gentle glow. Jon's gaze slides carefully to the ginger at his side, face slack and peaceful in sleep. He stares long enough to burn that image into memory, so powerful he can see it behind closed eyes. The boys breath hitches when he finally blows the flame away. They sleep together in a tangle of limbs, the wildlings arm tight and secure where it's thrown across Snow's waist.

Tormund dreams of home, Ygritte's feisty smiles and the first time he saw his crow.

Jon dreams of ice blue eyes and a crown of frost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! All comments and kudos are insanely appreciated. The next chapter will include the mutiny at Castle Black so be prepared for that <3 Also 8.4 is happening tonight so catch me in the corner crying if you want to talk about it.


	4. Charon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bastard." Jon thinks in indignation even as he melts into the wildlings mouth. Or maybe he says it out loud because Giantsbane tilts his head back and lets out a laughter so pure it leaves Snow weak in the knees.
> 
> He looks happier than Jon has ever seen him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer, I own nothing! 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment, leave kudos or subscribe. You guys got me through the month and I'm eternally grateful.
> 
> This chapter will cover the mutiny at Castle Black so be prepared. Until then enjoy these two losers in love.

_And there'll be coins on my eyes_  
_There'll be coins on my eyes_  
_To pay Charon_

-Keaton Henson 

* * *

Jon comes to consciousness slowly, guided by the sound of waves crashing against a weathered hull. Outside men are yelling. Land has finally been spotted, therefore its expected they'll reach Castle Black in an hour or so. Jon's bleary gaze shifts to the arm around his waist, heavy and dusted with tiny red hairs. It's a different kind of warm, sticky and intimate. He might've experienced it with Ygritte if they'd been able to stay a little longer in that cave. 

The wildlings hold is just loose enough that Jon is able to twist, turning his back on the wall in favor of admiring Tormund's face. This close he can see that the man has more freckles than he'd thought. They're sprinkled across his nose and peppered over pale shoulders. It had been dark last night but the candle gave off just enough light to confirm that Tormund has them everywhere, from the tips of his ears to the top of his feet.

He reaches, absentmindedly tracing the tiny blemishes. There's a scar fading into the mans hairline. Jon wonders how he got it, no doubt another outlandish story to be told. His finger follows the abrasion into a nest of red.

Giantsbane stirs at the sensation of soft padded fingers working through thick curls.

Sleepily he murmurs the boys name. Fingers stop in place, frozen as if Jon's been caught in the middle of some forbidden act. Tormund cracks a smile and presses closer, his nose brushing tenderly against his crows. 

"You're being awfully friendly this morning Snow." The wildling's eyes are still closed but he can imagine the way Jon looks at him, gaze open and damn near guilty. Reluctantly the boy tries to withdraw his hand only to be stopped by Tormund's palm pressing it back into place.

"I wasn't asking you to stop." The wildling burrows closer, cheek nestled into the crook of Jon's neck. It takes some time but gradually Snow relaxes, fingers beginning to gently massage Tormund's scalp. The moment is a gift, the last quiet before a turbulent storm. Jon knows he has responsibilities on deck but stays a minute longer, stealing away what little comfort he can before there's no more to be had. 

Edd is the one who comes to knock on their cabin, never once mentioning how one cot had obviously gone unused. Jon is long dressed by then, battling with an onslaught of anxiety. Tormund's standing near the door, still bare above the waist. Edd glances in his direction, eyes cutting away abruptly upon finding the wildling's top half uncovered. Giantsbane grins cheekily as he fastens his belt. If it were anyone else Jon might've worried for their lives. 

To Edd's credit he only sputters once. "Land has been spotted. We'll be docking soon." He looks painfully awkward standing there but not terribly shocked. Edd knew about Ygritte. No details but enough to gather that Jon loved her. They'll talk about it later but for now Jon takes pity on his friend. 

"Thank you Edd. I'll be out in a minute." 

Jon's never seen him so grateful to be dismissed, out the door before Tormund can think up some clever comment to chase him with. 

Giantsbane has donned a fur coat, moving towards Jon now to adjust the fabric of his tunic. Snow lets him fuss over it, unable to bring himself to care about disheveled clothing.

"You worried Snow?"

The crow snorts in amusement. "About Edd ratting us out? God no." That's the absolute least of his concerns right now.

Tormund nods minutely, affectionately tugging Jon's collar up around his ears in preparation for the cold air that will be cutting across the water. 

"Then what's got you gnawing your bottom lip like that?" 

Jon blinks, owlish. Hesitantly a hand moves to touch his lip. The skin there is sore and swollen.

Snow falters. This moment has been weighing on his mind since they cast off for Hardhome. Ser Alliser is a man loyal to the watch. Jon may have been Lord Commander when they left but that's liable to change. Alliser has had time to sway the men in his favor. Not that it would have been particularly difficult. 

Recently Jon's not been well liked by his brothers in black, most of whom disagree with his decision to bring the wildling's past the wall. He should tell Tormund now while they're alone but the words catch in his throat. How can he tell this man they may be walking all that's left of his people into slaughter?

Giantsbane leans closer, eyes searching the crows face. He's known the boy long enough to understand that while Jon talks with unwavering confidence he struggles with doubt just like the rest of them. 

"You know that fretting about Alliser openin' the gate isn't gonna affect his decision. So you might as well stop." Whatever happens will happen regardless of how they feel about it. The best they can do is live in the moment and prepare for the worst. 

Jon looks miserably guilty at being called out. "I _know_ that." The crow huffs sullenly. "But saying and doing are two entirely different things." He makes to head for the door but doesn't even manage to touch the handle before Tormund grabs him, wide palms hauling Snow back into the room so easily it's infuriating.

"This isn't fair you know. You can't always just kiss everything better." Jon bristles, disgruntled at being manhandled like some small women. He has more to say but hands suddenly frame his cheeks, so tender the words die in Snow's throat. 

"Maybe not, but I won't know unless I damn well try."

"Tormund." Jon's voice is flat, unimpressed. Giantsbane recognizes it as one he uses with the men when he wants to show authority. Tormund would hate to burst his bubble by telling him that his lips are irresistibly pouty like this, practically begging to be kissed. 

"Just stand there and be pretty King Crow, that's all i'm asking you to do." 

"But the men-" Jon makes a startled little noise as Tormund's lips settle against his own, effectively stealing his breath away.

"The men can wait a few minutes longer." He is careful of the place where Jon has chewed skin raw, runs his tongue over it in a way he knows the boy will find soothing. 

_"Bastard."_ Jon thinks in indignation even as he melts into the wildlings mouth. Or maybe he says it out loud because Giantsbane tilts his head back and lets out a laughter so pure it leaves Snow weak in the knees. 

He looks happier than Jon has ever seen him.

"Fine," The boy's hands settle against Tormund's waist. "I suppose we should enjoy it on the off hand that Alliser has taken control and we never get a chance again." 

"My brooding little crow." Giantsbane breathes, fondly exasperated as he presses lips against Jon's brow. "Will you ever give it a rest?"

 _Maybe when I'm dead_ , the boy thinks morbidly. But for Tormund he grins. "Only if you make me." The wildling leans to kiss him again, softer than Jon's used to. 

His mouth is so sweet, it's the closest Snow will ever come to salvation 

* * *

They dock with little incident. Tormund rallies the free folk while Jon hands out orders to his fellow crows. They gather in line and begin the long trek back to Castle Black just as the sun is beginning to crest over water. 

The weather is good as it can be considering it's still early enough in the morning that the temperature has yet to rise. It seems as though they've missed whatever snow storm passed through in the days prior. The trail back is hidden in white but watchmen know the way by heart. 

Wind blows through powerful and dry, stirring the ground as they walk. Giantsbane stays close to his crow, keeping an eye out for familiar scenery. Beside him Jon shivers, be it from exposure or a growing sense of anticipation the wildling isn't sure.

Tormund sneaks glances at the boy, curiously wondering if he's set aside the Night King and those silly promises about dying. Jon catches him staring and all Giantsbane can do is grin, strangely reminded of lying bare and tangled together on a cot that should've been too small for the both of them. Somehow they'd made it work, though Tormund suspects that has more to do with Jon sleeping partially across his chest rather than the size of the bed itself.

A collective gasp echoes as Castle Black comes into view. The wall towers ominously, solid ice casting an eerie sort of shadow across the return party. This is the first time most of the free folk are seeing it in person.

There's been times that Jon worried the wall wouldn't be tall enough to save them, never considered how hopeless it felt to be on the other side looking up. Now he's experiencing it for himself, the emotion palpable and thick in the air. Snow knows then just how desperate the free folk we're to try and mount any sort of attack in the face of this obstacle. It might as well be a form of suicide. 

Jon's never felt so small.

There's movement at the top, the moment of truth now upon them. Will Alliser honor his word or won't he. Snow waits with his heart pulsating in his throat, eyes carefully scanning the wall for any signs of Thorne. Giantsbane stands rigid at his side, every bit ready for a fight if it comes to that. 

Snow utters a prayer to gods he's never believed in, cannot live with having led all of these people out of Hardhome only for them to meet their death here at this wall like so many others before them. 

Ser Alliser appears only seconds lately, no doubt called by the men left on watch. Jon wouldn't be surprised if he took the stairs just to give them time to sweat it out.

Somberly Thorne catches the Lord Commanders eye, holding Jon's gaze so long that by the time he finally gives the order to let them in Snow has stepped forward, an entire battle plan formulated in his mind. Tormund spent his seconds counting all the crows he could reach from this distance. Upon finding none of them close enough for combat he began picking out places to hide the children should arrows start raining from the sky. 

The lower gate groans terribly as iron is lifted. Jon swears It's one of the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard. Grates are barely three feet off the ground when Jon spots a black nose under the bars. Most the free folk stumble back at the sight of a direwolf but Jon runs forward, arms spread open to catch the beast as it jumps up to greet him.

"Ah, good boy. I was afraid Alliser would have you stuffed out of spite." The wolf's tongue is sticky and hot against his cheek but Jon's glad for it. Ghost is all he has left of the family he'd so foolishly left behind. 

There will be meetings to attend later, talks of land and where they will house the wildlings. None of that matters now. For the first time since the battle of Castle Black Jon finally feels at peace. Giantsbane grins crookedly as if reading his thoughts, throws a heavy arm over Snow's shoulders.

"Ygritte would be damn proud of you." He pulls the boy closer, voice dropping for only Jon to hear. "Our pretty crow." Together they walk through the gates, Ghost following like a shadow behind them. 

* * *

The free folk are being escorted through Castle Black. Jon found a small settlement before going on the trip but there was no guarantee it would be approved in time to house so many people. He doesn't like to think about how some of this land is empty only because other wildlings have viciously made it so. Olly is a constant reminder of that. Jon does his best not to let the dirty looks cut him too deeply. The boy will understand once he's older. And if not Jon will have to live with that.

Giantsbane has the honor of leading his people to their new land, along with a few trusted men in black who are sent to guide the way. Snow stands off near the side with his chubby friend overseeing the proceedings. The furrow of his brow is familiar, most definitely a sign the boy is agonizing over everything they lost in order to save what few they have, all the people he's betrayed by doing so. 

Tormund watches him fondly, once again feeling the urge to rub away that constant crease. His chest constricts at the idea of being away for so long. It will take days to get his people settled into their new home. Jon's liable to have wrinkles by the time he gets back. 

Thus far Wun Wun has been the main attraction, every man of the watch out to witness a giant in the flesh as if it'd been pulled from a child's story book. The creature stomps harder than necessary through the courtyard, face contorted so fiercely Tormund suspects he's remembering Mag the Mighty who died fighting one of Jon's brothers in the tunnels beneath Castle Black. Dongo was also speared that night, effectively making Wun Wun the very last of his kind. 

And without the new King Crow they would have lost Wun Wun to Hardhome, ending the age of Giants forever. 

Dim Dalba approaches Tormund's left, carefully pretending to not notice the way he gazes at a certain curly headed crow. "How do we know we're not being led to some mass grave site that will make getting rid of us easier?

Giantsbane grunts in response, respectful of the Hardhome elder. "Easiest way to get rid of us would have been shooting everyone dead from atop that fucking wall. I'm sure they have the arrows for it." Dim Dabla pales beside him, likely thinking of all the little ones and what could have become of them. "Afterwards burning our bodies would've been easy work, no digging necessary." 

The older man nods but Tormund can still feel tension rolling off him in waves and that's no good. People are looking to them for reassurance in this strange new land. Giantsbane takes a moment to collect his thoughts before trying again. "Jon Snow is the best of them." His voice is steady with confidence. "I trust him to do right by us." The crow has never given him a reason to think otherwise.

Dim Dabla studies Tormund's face, drinking in the sincere shine of his eyes. It seems to help him breathe a little easier.

They are coming up on another gate now, one that will take them out of Castle Black and into whatever southern lands Jon found for them to settle. Giantsbane gives orders to keep going without him, promising he'll bring up the rear and work his way back to the front. It earns him a strange look or two but Dim Dalba doesn't question it. They all know where he's headed.

Ghost has taken the plump boys place at Jon's side. It's amber eyes find Tormund through the throng of people. Even from this distance he can see how the hair is raised upon the beast's back.

Snow is having words with sour Alliser. Tormund's not within earshot but the man looks....displeased. No doubt about the herd of wildlings who have just come through. Giantsbane watches him storm away, all the while deciding to keep a better eye on that particular crow, lest he get any funny ideas about their dear Lord Commander. 

Jon smiles when he turns to see Tormund standing there, cheeks nearly rivaling the color of his hair. If Snow had to guess he'd say the man ran to get here.

"I was almost worried you'd be gone without saying anything."

The wildling snorts softly, clearly offended Jon would even consider such a thing after all they've been through. "Would that make you feel like a woman Jon Snow?" The words are meant to get a rise out of his crow, allow him to see Jon smile at least once more before he has to go. That's such a rare sight these days, he wants to remember it. 

"Oh, piss off why don'tcha? I just wanted to say thank you." Snow rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, embarrassed as if Tormund had not spent the night sucking bruises into his flesh. "Couldn't have done all this without you." He means thank you for the kind words and the kisses, for holding him through the night and standing by his side on that beach in Hardhome. He hopes one day Tormund understands.

"Yeah, sure. The real hero here is you though King Crow. You saved the free folk." Giantsbane is struck by the memory of Wun Wun's face, twisted in sorrow. "We could be extinct right now if not for you." Tormund smiles at him then, so radiant and lopsided it makes everything seem all the more worth it. Jon's going to miss that while he's gone. 

"Just promise you'll hurry back, yeah?" The boy offers out his hand, knowing that while he wants to stay and talk Tormund needs to go catch up with his people before they venture too far ahead. "I want a status report as soon as you get settled in." It's the best way he knows to ask the wildling to come back without actually asking. 

"Is that right?" Tormund's eyes are crinkled, a strange little smirk on his face. "I s'pose i'll have to be sure and do that then." He takes the hand offered to him, holdings it tightly. Jon isn't expecting the wildling to yank him forward. He falls heavily into a broad chest, shocked to feel arms wind securely around his shoulders in a tender sort of hug. 

"See you later little crow." His breath is warm as it washes over the outer shell of Jon's ear. "Stay out of trouble while i'm gone." 

It feels too soon for Tormund to let go but he does so anyways, urged by the few pairs of eyes he can feel watching. It's painstakingly easy to envision the target on Jon's back. Giantsbane swallows back a sickening impulse to stay, even more pronounced when he feels small and callused hands pushing at his lower back. Jon is nudging him along. 

"I make no promises but i'll be sure to try." Snow gives the wildling one of his subtle smiles, full of mischief and teasing. Just seeing it gives Tormund a tiny rush of adrenaline. He will go and come back and Jon Snow will be fine. His crow is a hard man to kill. 

"Do more than try." The ginger pats Jon's shoulder one last time, anything just to touch him again. Snow can tell he wants to do more but now is not the time or place for such things. The wildling waves once, and then he's gone. 

Jon watches him jog to catch up with his people, shoulders still warm where Tormund's arm had been. Absently the crow wonders if he too had felt that strange sense of finality. They'd fought wretchedly about it but in the end Jon still feels an impending dread, even while hoping that Tormund is right and he's just over analyzing a bad dream.

* * *

After the free folk have gone Jon is left to his responsibilities as Lord Commander. He reads scrolls and listens to everything that has happened while he's been gone. The sun is steadily falling behind a peach colored horizon by the time he meets up with Sam in the library.

It's only when he's been enveloped in a signature Samwell greeting that Jon realizes just how much he'd missed his fellow crow. There's an easiness between them that's hard to find anywhere else. Ghost lays lazily at their feet while Jon tells all about Hardhome and what he saw there, how the Night King had raised the dead with just a wave of his arms. Sam of course asks about the dragonglass. 

Jon is actually pained to tell him it's gone. All he has now is Longclaw and there's just not enough valyrian steel in the world for it to matter. They have no survival plan right now, only a wavering hope that the wall will continue to stand between them and the dead. 

"The first Lord Commander in history to sacrifice lives of sworn brothers to save the lives of wildlings." Jon pours himself a cup of wine, and another for Sam. "How’s it feel to be friends with the most hated man in Castle Black?" He smiles, cheeky despite the sting of truth. 

Sam laughs at his terrible joke. It might have actually been funny if not for the danger of their reality. 

"You were friends with me when I first got here, and I wasn’t winning any elections back then." Samwell takes the cup, a kind smile on his face as he tries to give Jon what little reassurances there are to be given. He'd been well resented once, something he survived only because Jon stepped in on his behalf. Of course Jon never said so himself but word got around. People liked to whisper about the great big direwolf snarling in Rast's face, how he'd pissed his pants because of it.

Samwell isn't winning any popularity contests now but he does have friends, people who believe in him more than he ever believed in himself. He supposes he owes that to Jon. Alliser would've seen him dead just so a point could be made with the others, _this is what happens to overweight cowards in the watch._

Jon raises his glass. "Here’s to us then. Long may they sneer." Their glasses clink together noisily in the quiet atmosphere, accompanied only by logs crackling inside the furnace. Jon catches Sam staring at him, a strange sort of hesitation on his face. God knows that can't be good.

" _What?_ "

There's a long moment where Samwell looks down into his wine, searching as if the liquid were going to offer some profound wisdom. Jon thinks maybe drinking it would do him better but says nothing, waiting patiently for his friend to find whatever words he might be looking for.

"I wanted to ask you something." Sam pauses again, just long enough for Jon's stomach to start sinking with some nameless dread. "To ask something _of_ you."

Ah, here it is. Jon sits up a little straighter as if bracing himself. Samwell mirrors the grimace on his face.

"Send me, Gilly, and the baby to Oldtown so I can become a Maester." There's a note of pleading in his tone. It tugs heavily at Jon's heartstrings. "That’s what I’m meant to be, not this."

Jon doesn't bother asking what's so wrong with this. He himself has grown tired of the life they live, won't pretend that Sam should enjoy it. And still, the words pour from his mouth. "I need you here, Sam." He doesn't mean to be selfish but the thought of staying in this miserable place without Sam or Tormund is more than a little daunting. "If you leave, who’s left to give me advice I trust?"

There's a tense pause. Samwell wrings his hands, offering softly, "Well, there’s Edd." 

Jon's mouth tilts downwards, eyes bleak as he stares upon his best friend's face. Sam must know that having Edd around would not be the same. Even still, he keeps pushing. 

"I’ll be more use to you as a Maester. More use to everyone now that Maester Aemon’s gone." Samwell tells him of The Citadel and how it has the world’s greatest library, explains how he'll learn more about all things, things that will definitely help them when the long night comes. He talks and Jon should be listening but at some point he'd zoned out, mind stuck on that boat at Hardhome staring into eyes that are neither living or dead. 

He doesn't have anything to say in response. Sam leans forward, thick fingers curling around Jon's wrist as if it will help him grasp the severity of their situation. 

"If Gilly stays here then she’ll _die_." Samwell utters the words with such grief, looking at Jon as if he'd never understand, as if he hadn't already held the first love of his life while she'd taken her dying breaths in the courtyard of Castle Black. "And the baby that she named after me will die. And I’ll end up dying, too, trying to protect them." 

There's a dark truth to the statement. Jon knows what it's like to love someone enough he'd die just to give them a little more time. "Which means that the last thing that I’ll see in this world will be the look in her eyes when I fail them." Sam's voice wavers and Jon thinks of Tormund, the tiny anguished sound he'd made watching as wights slaughtered his people. What if one of those unfortunate souls had been Giantsbane himself?

"I'd rather see a thousand White Walkers than see that."

Jon can't help but agree. 

He inhales, knowing distantly that he's making a terrible mistake. It's too late to change his mind though, the decisions been made.

Sam must know it too because he smiles, possibly the most sincere Jon's ever seen.

"Thank you."

Jon waves him away, wishing he could do the same to this ever sinking feeling in his gut. It's easier to focus on Sam, how his friend is working so hard for a women he's not even technically allowed to be with. Of course Jon can't judge him for that, he'd basically done the same for Ygritte.

With Tormund things have been different. He's not once thought about breaking his vow to the watch as there's no rule about laying with another man. The rules of Westeros would damn them both for it but Jon can't bring himself to care. His life is going to end before it ever becomes an issue.

"You know that The Citadel will make you swear off women, too."

Sam fixes him with a coy little smirk, almost bashful as he says, "They’ll bloody try."

Jon feels his jaw go slack, absolutely dumbfounded by the notion of innocent Sam breaking all the rules. The men who teased never got that far after taking the black. 

"Sam?"

He hadn't noticed until now just how much his friend has grown, no longer a naive boy being pushed around by his peers. In truth he's out lived most of them, shaping himself into a good man, a brave man. And now it seems he's even gotten himself a beautiful wildling women to call his own, no longer in need of Jon to protect him. Snow repeats his name more fondly this time, carefully deciding to ignore the sudden sting that accompanies such thoughts. 

It's an impressive feat for a man in the night's watch. With Ygritte he hadn't lived inside the walls as Sam does with Gilly. "You’ve just been beaten half to death. How did you--"

"Very carefully." Samwell interrupts shyly, cheeks flushed in a way that reminds Jon of all the wildlings he's loved. One living and one dead. Snow echoes his friends smile, laughing just because they've somehow made it to this point. When he first met Sam they'd been nothing more than a pair of virgins, never having stepped foot outside their respective homes. 

"I’m glad the end of the world’s working out for someone." Jon could probably tell Sam about Tormund, how all that tension between them had finally come to a conclusion on the boat back to Castle Black. Snow hadn't been able to name the feeling then but he knows it now. Jon feels for Tormund as he had for Ygritte. It's the same emotion no matter how different it seems when he thinks about them separately. With Ygritte every second felt exciting and new, unlike the slow moments of comfortable quiet that he's experienced with Tormund. 

They've fallen into silence. He should tell Sam everything, knows he might not get another chance to do so. Jon tries but the words won't come, and he realizes absently that he's not ready to share Tormund yet. This love he might very well take to the grave.

Its possible his expression has given him away because Sam seems to sit up straighter, staring at Jon with eyes that burn fierce with sincerity. "I’ll come back." He speaks slowly, packing emotion behind each word as if it will make Jon believe in him. 

The thing is, Jon's not worried about Sam coming back. He has no doubt about that. It's just a question of whether or not he'll still be here to welcome his friend home. These aren't concerns to share though, not now that Samwell's going to be leaving him. What good would it do either of them to plant the seed of doubt in his mind?

Jon raises a glass, lips twitching into a wistful smile. "To your return." 

Sam smiles back at him, blissfully unaware. "To my return."

* * *

Seeing Sam off is harder than he'd expected it to be. Jon finds himself rooted to the spot where they said farewell several long moments after the carriage has faded from sight. He's midway through giving orders for the gate to be lowered when another horse rides into view.

This job is never done. Jon recognizes the visitor as Davos Seaworth and judging by the look on his face he's been sent to ask for something. Maybe even _demand_ considering Stannis is the one who sends him. 

The conversation goes as Snow anticipated. Davos wants more men for the Baratheon army and Jon has none to spare. 

The Onion knight is nothing if not persistent. He follows relentlessly, all the while talking Jon's ear off about how Stannis came to their aid once and now it's only fair they return the favor. 

"We don’t have enough men to make any difference." It may be true they owe the Baratheons a debt for stopping Mance's army but that fact does not change the reality of their situation. 

"The wildlings will make a difference!" 

Jon turns sharply at that, mouth pursed into a thin line. He does not speak for the free folk but he's more than qualified to make this call. As a man of the watch he knows first hand that they've taken enough from these people. No Southern king should ask for more just because he's grown power hungry and complacent in a wealthy life. "The wildlings won’t ever fight for Stannis, I told you before--"

"You saved their bloody lives!" 

Jon's shoulders slump, tight and aching with the tension of this conversation. He makes to keep moving but Davos is blocking the path. "If they’re going to live in the Seven Kingdoms, safe behind our wall, they ought to fight for the damn place."

The Onion knight all but stomps his foot. Jon understands why Stannis chose to send him. Davos is good at talking, and the way he puts it the wildlings _should_ fight. But this is not black and white. They are not battling against the real enemy, only fussing like children over a throne that won't mean shit when the long night comes. 

Snow finally stops walking altogether, spinning on his heel in order to meet the man's gaze. He wants Davos to see his face as he says this and know that he damn well means it. 

"It’s not their fight!" They have already lost so much, Jon will not ask them to lose more so Stannis can sit in a chair. He's tired of losing good people, won't risk Tormund in an altercation that doesn't even involve them.

Ser Davos lets out a well worn sigh. Jon watches his breath turn to a cloud of vapor in the air around them. He's yet to decipher the old man's sounds, doesn't know if this means Davos is giving up or not. Lucky someone else has appeared at the front gate. Several men of the watch yell out, calling for Snow to come see for himself who wants entry into their castle. 

Jon's almost expecting Stannis to be there, having come to secure more fighting bodies with or without the Commanders consent. Instead it's only the Red Women riding horseback, all alone in the dark. 

Davos reaches her first. They both have questions, what is she doing here and where is Stannis? Why is she alone? Melisandre gives them nothing. She drops wordlessly from her horse, leaving its reigns in Jon's hands before drifting off into the courtyard. 

The two of them share a tense silence, both knowing she's brought something terrible here with her. 

Jon manages to find rooms for Davos and the Priestess. They are by no means cozy but it will be dry and warmer than the harsh climate outside. Melisandre refuses to speak but Davos has been well appreciative, still going on about how they will talk more about helping Stannis in the morning. Jon smiles and nods, anything to be done for the night. 

They don't speak of the possibility that Stannis is no longer in need of aid, but it hangs in the air between them. Davos looks older now, weighed down by fear of the unknown. Jon remembers that the Baratheon's had a young daughter. He'd seen her once, holding the Onion knight's hand as he showed her around the courtyard of Castle Black. It wasn't long after Mance's execution. She'd held a book in tiny hands, explaining exuberantly the tells of Targaryens that rode dragons into Westeros. 

Jon thinks of Arya and her little face, still round with youth. No one knows what happened to her after their father met his end on the chopping block. Snow gazes upon Davos and wonders if the truth will be kind to them. Most likely not. This world is a cruel place for little girls.

The walk back to his room is short. Jon takes a longer route though, right past the room where they'd held Tormund in shackles while men of power were still deciding his fate.

Snow stops short outside the door, slipping protective gloves off so that bare fingertips can trace the weathered metal handle. Vividly he remembers opening it that night, unaware of everything that simple action would lead them to. Removing those chains proved to be one of the best things he's ever done in life. Jon is exceedingly glad for it, the memory of lips suckling against sensitive skin still fresh in his mind.

The crow shakes himself irritably. It's selfish to want Tormund back so soon but this place feels colder with no ginger in sight.

Somewhere in the distance a twig snaps and Jon is overwhelmed by the sudden unmistakable sensation of eyes on his back. Deft fingers instinctively fall to rest upon Longclaws pommel. For a moment his vision blurs and the crow swears he's back on that boat, staring into eyes that reflect nothing but endless death. His own included. 

Adrenaline makes his stomach churn. Jon grips the sword tighter, its ivory wolfs head digging into clammy palms, a silent reminder that Starks show no fear. With that in mind the boy turns before he can talk himself out of it, weapon drawn and ready for-

No one. Snow swallows thickly, eyes scanning the darkness. There is nothing but two glowing orbs, red as the harvest moon.

"Ghost." Jon softens, just a little. The direwolf strolls towards him, head cocked curiously to the side as if it can sense it's master's unease. Snow bends to gently pat the beast's head, feeling somewhat humiliated even though Ghost is the only one to witness his paranoia.

Gods, he really is going mad.

Jon resheaths Longclaw, huffing at the animal waiting patiently at his side. "Time for supper is it?" 

Ghost perks up immediately, ears twitching at the mention of food. Jon gives the beast one last stroke before wondering towards the mess hall. Men often leave scraps behind, Ghost having become somewhat of a hero to them after the battle of Castle Black. Snow sees to it that the wolf is well fed, and afterwards he sits outside the kennels for longer than necessary. 

Tonight his stomach is in knots, and Jon's almost tempted to keep the animal with him for company. He'd made an agreement though when Lord Mormont conceded in letting Ghost stay, no special treatment. 

Jon slips the kennel lock into place. 

* * *

In his room there are various scrolls spread chaotically across the desk, most responses to raven's he'd sent out requesting more men to guard the wall. Jon flips through them warrily, already well aware of what the majority will say. 

_The lords are sorry to inform you that we have no able bodied men to send at this time._

Jon's read the words so many times he can see them ingrained on the inside of his eyelids. He's relieved to hear the door swing open, someone come to save him from this mess of scrolls and despair. The crow turns to see Olly standing in his doorway, face so pale it looks ashen in the dim light. Hair stands rigid on the back of Jon's neck. 

"Lord Commander. It’s one of the wildlings you brought back. Says he knows your uncle Benjen. Says he’s still alive."

Snow rises immediately, chest tight at the idea of finding Benjen alive after all this time. He'd given up shorty after his first outing with Lord Mormont. No one survives beyond the wall, no one except wildlings and the dead. " Are you sure he’s talking about Benjen?" Jon carefully scans the boy's figure for injuries. He find's none but remains alarmed by how Olly's hands seem to tremble at his sides. 

"Says he was first Ranger." The child's voice carries urgently. "Said he knows where to find him." Snow leads them out of the room, in such a hurry he forgets Longclaw on the desk near unopened scrolls. He's taking the stairs two at a time with Olly hot on his trail. If the boy looked down he'd see a hopeful glint in Jon's eye.

He doesn't look down.

By the time they reach the courtyard Ser Alliser is already waiting at the bottom of the steps. His face is grim in a way that Jon doesn't understand. It reminds him not to be so foolish as to get his hopes up over this proposed sighting of Benjen, at least not before he hears from the wildling themselves.

Alliser keeps stride with him. "Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome the last full moon."

Hardhome. If that's true then Jon had only missed him by a few weeks, still fighting against the free folk instead of trying to help them. 

"He could be lying." The words taste sour on his tongue. Jon's never wanted to be wrong so badly. This is a man who'd treated him no different than all the other Stark siblings. Snow had always been equal in his eyes, last name be damned. Surely Tormund would have mentioned it if there were any news on his uncle. The wildling has never kept anything from him. He tells Jon the truth, no matter how brutal.

"Could be." Alliser is leading a step or two ahead of him now. "There are ways to find out."

He's not going fast enough. If Benjen is alive out there then Jon needs to find him, sooner rather than later. If exposure hasn't gotten him there's a chance the dead will. Snow imagines his uncle a soldier in the Night Kings army, kind brown eyes iced over and not his own. The thought causes an uncomfortable ache behind Jon's ribcage. 

"Where is he?" 

Alliser stops several feet ahead. Snow stumbles past him to see a small gathering of brothers. They seem to be surrounding whatever wildling is telling such stories, faces lit by the torches they hold. Ser Alliser points him towards the circle, face grave as it had been on the day they almost lost the castle.

"Over there."

Jon takes off towards his brothers in black, running fast as his legs will carry him. They make room so he can pass into the middle of their circle. Jon feels himself jostled around, breath hitching as he catches a glimpse of what awaits in the center. 

No wildling with information on Benjen. Just a splintered wooden post wearing a sign that reads one word.

_**"TRAITOR"** _

Jon sees this and still it takes a moment for the situation to click in his mind. This is not a joke or a rescue mission. This is coup and they've got him completely cornered. 

As the world is bottoming out around him, a memory flashes in Jon's mind's eye. 

_Ser Alliser is waiting at the bottom of the steps into the courtyard. He seems to hide something in his cloak but Jon doesn't think to ask what it is. Olly falls out of step behind them, and for a split second it seems as though he and Alliser share a look-_

With a sharp intake of breath he whirls around to confront them. Thorne is already positioned at his back, expecting the panic. Their eyes meet and Jon doesn't even have a chance to see the blade before it's buried in his gut.

"For the watch." Alliser twists the knife before pulling it out. There's a choked yelp as pain explodes throughout Jon's abdomen, white hot and more powerful than any shock that might've kept him from feeling. Hands fly to the open wound, instinctively applying pressure in an attempt to keep the damage under control. Alliser looks upon him and for a second Jon thinks maybe he sees pity in the man's gaze, but the torch lights are dancing and the moment ends so suddenly that Jon decides he'd seen nothing, a trick of the light.

Othell already has a dagger drawn and ready. Jon recalls this man being present in the Haunted Forest to witness it the day he and Samwell spoke their watchers oath. The heart tree had bleed for them then just as Jon is bleeding now.

Yarwyck is moving so quickly, the boy jerks as if to defend himself but its useless. There's a second bloom of agony, the blade splits through Jon's knuckle and sinks Into tender flesh. He doesn't have the energy to scream.

"For the watch." Snow recoils at the words, never thought they could sound so empty. Othell had been of the first to clasp him on the shoulder after a successful induction. 

Bowen is next. Jon should have expected this one to be involved. Marsh was never a friend, barely an ally considering he gave more dirty looks than Alliser Thorne himself. It's happening in such rapid succession Snow can only close his eyes and brace for the coming attack. Bowen grips Jon's upper arm. It might leave bruises but the crow won't live to see them. Marsh's other hand drives a blade past fragile skin and muscle mass. "For the watch." 

Jon feels it nick a rib on the withdraw. 

There's blood lodged in his sinuses. This _has_ to be over soon. Alliser should know he won't survive past this point, anymore would be overkill.

Another emerges from the crowd. Jon recognizes his face as someone he'd eaten meals with in the early mornings. Vaguely he wonders if the man had hated him then, too. 

Gods, how badly he underestimated the depths of their resentment. 

There's a rivulet of red dripping steady onto the ground, melting snow into a thick slush. Boots squelch repulsively as they approach. Jon feels an almost hysterical wave of despair.

The knife sinks in just above his belly button and all the boy can do is shudder. There's copper in his mouth now, thick and warm. It sticks in his throat, threatening to choke him. 

His brother spares him no sympathy, wipes the sullied blade on Jon's tunic before disappearing into the crowd. "For the watch." 

A fifth is still to come. The boy takes a staggering step backwards but his legs are unsteady, he's not quick enough. Trying only makes it worse. A cruel hand snags the front of his cloak to bring him forward. All of Jon's weight falls onto the dagger, it's curved blade buried hilt deep in the crows sternum. 

Snow shivers around the intruding metal, nauseatingly sure of what the bastard is going to say next.

"For the watch." The man shoves Jon off his knife sounding right proud of himself. Blood spurts forth like wine that used to be poured at supper in Winterfell. His father had let him taste it once, repulsively sweet with a bitter cherry after bite. The boy realizes as his knees give out that blood is so much thicker, can feel it soaking into his socks. Jon supposes he's drenched by now, tunic heavy where the fabric sticks wetly to torn skin

He thinks about that night on the boat, how Tormund looked at him as if the world would end if he wasn't in it. He hopes the world doesn't end, hopes Tormund lives a good life after he's gone.

There is a smaller shadow standing among all the rest. Jon's eyes are fixed on it, entire body going rigid. He knows it's Olly before the boy finds courage enough to step forward into the torch light. Who else could it be? The child is even paler now than he'd been before. He moves closer and Jon whimpers at the sight of him, heart rate pitching wildly. 

"Olly..." The word is a ragged whisper. Jon doesn't understand why he's here, why Alliser would allow him to see-

Oh. Snow's gaze falls to a freshly sharpened blade clutched between hands that are far too tiny for such a weapon. It's an inch or two longer than all the others and he's got the tip of it angled threateningly towards Jon's heart. They make eye contact, Jon's mind echoing the foolish idea that Olly would be the person to take his place.

The knife slips in sudden and forceful. Jon nearly swallows his tongue, black dots obstructing a glassy gaze. Olly's hands are shaking but he keeps a stiff upper lip, unremorseful. 

"For the Watch." He says, but Snow knows this is for the boys mother and father, slaughtered by wildlings he'd allowed through the wall. By Tormund and Ygritte. 

A smarter man might've regret the decision that led his comrades to treason but Jon's never fancied himself a smart man, and he knows he was right even as Olly yanks the knife away. 

Blood splatters hot in the snow. Ghost lets out a pitiful howl as the scent of it reaches his cage.

Jon manages to stay on his knees out of pure spite, staring at Olly until the sight of blood saturating his tunic is too much for the boy. He turns away in disgust and Jon feels gravity taking over, pulling his body backwards into the unforgiving earth. He's too weak now to brace himself, lands so violently his teeth click together upon impact. Light fades slowly from around him and distantly Snow registers the sound of boots crunching ice as they go. 

Silence falls upon him, interrupted only by the wet rattle of lungs struggling to constrict. 

_Traitor_ , they'd called him. They said that about Ned Stark in the end as well.

The knowledge brings him no peace. His father had left behind so many, and they all suffered because of it. Sansa abandoned in Kings Landing with that cruel king and Arya vanished, Bran and Rickon burned to death when the Greyjoys took Winterfell. They say Rob's head was cut from his body and paraded around on horseback while the regal lady Catelyn was dumped bare into the Green Fork. All that suffering and here he is, causing more. What will become of the wildlings with him gone? 

What will become of Tormund?

A strangled sob claws its way from Jon's throat, flecks of blood peppering the boys chin as he fights to breathe, defiant. Every inhale is jagged and raw, worse than the last. Numbly Jon fumbles to remove his gloves, palms sliding sickly against swollen lacerations. It does little good. There's too many of them, and his hands are just too small. Blood wells steadily between spasming fingers. If only Tormund were here. His hands are so much bigger. 

_Jon wishes he were here._

The snow dissolves into sludge around him, a bloom of red that continues to stretch. _This is death_ , the boy blinks away tears, his mind falling into a haze. It's heavy like ice on his bones, mercilessly squeezing the fight from his heart. Jon can feel the muscle getting weaker. He'd heard once that life flashes before a dying man's eyes but he doesn't see anything. There's only the starry sky looking down upon him. 

Jon feels so insignificant under the black expanse of space, cold and choking on blood that bubbles like spring water. It brings with it an eerie sense of calm. Maybe Ygritte will be in the next life to greet him, her eyes grey like the morning mist just as they'd been on the day he first saw her. 

That wouldn't be so bad. Jon stares up at the stars, and he's almost ready to let go, would have _happily_ let go, except his dying brain surges, bringing forth a memory-

_Their cabin is dark except for the candle throwing shadows on Tormund's face. The man has a hand on Jon's hip, rough and warm and alive while the other is secured possessively around a scarless torso. They are making love but Jon's foolishly talking about death-_

_And Tormund looks as if he's made out of stone, except in this scenario Jon can see that's only an illusion. Blue eyes falter, filled with such emotion that Snow just knows his dying is going to ruin this man that loves him._

There will be no one left to push fire kissed curls away from Tormund's forehead, no one to stand at his side and share in his burden. 

And just to think this morning they'd been so excruciatingly _happy_. 

Jon's withering mind produces an imagine- Giantsbane laughing in that cabin, smile so wide it looked as though he swallowed the sun.

What expression will Tormund wear when news of this finally reaches him?

The boys shoulders convulse, chest spasming violently in an attempt to clear his airway. _I should have listened better_ , he thinks, darkness creeping in on his vision. _Should have kissed him longer._

Ghost whimpers miserably. A gust of air rolls through, taking Jon's last breath away on the wind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! In the next chapter we'll see how Tormund reacts to finding out about his little crow. If you are deep in the feels and want to talk about it catch me on Twitter @darlingpleased1
> 
> And to everyone who has been keeping up with this story, I cannot appreciate you enough. The kind words and kudos give me strength to continue. Thank you again.


	5. If I'm to die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you"  He'd said, curls shining under the midday sun. Tormund had been thinking about the soft shape of Jon's lips, wishing he could steal a kiss. He hadn't realized the boy was trying to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer, I own nothing!
> 
> Ahhh, im sorry its taken so long to update! This chapter has been incredibly rough. Tormund has so many emotions to flesh out, and I wanted his grief to feel authentic even though Jon's going to be back soon. 
> 
> Also i'd like to thank everyone for the kind comments! There were so many times that I wanted to quit during this chapter. You all encouraged me to continue and I very much hope that you enjoy!

_And if I’m to die before we spend a soft day_  
_Know my final thoughts will be of regret_  
_If I'm to drown in the deep sea that parts us_  
_I once lived and loved, don’t forget_

-Keaton Henson

* * *

Davos is drawn from his room by the sound of howling, low and mournful. Certainly the Lord Commander is already out to investigate, it's his direwolf causing all the ruckus. Seaworth reaches for his coat. This will be an opportune time to catch Jon and talk more about sending help for Stannis. He's never failed his king before and he doesn't aim to start now. 

If memory serves him the beast's kennel is somewhere near the front gates. It will take a short walk through the courtyard to get there, but Davos doesn't mind that so much. A walk would do good to clear his head. 

He's only made it halfway down the stairs when his eyes catch on something terribly human shaped lying in the snow. Seaworth hurries forward, stomach churning as he gets close enough to recognize a familiar patch of black curls. The scent of blood is so thick in the air he can taste copper on his tongue.

The last few steps are the hardest. Davos knows who he's going to find out here, _he knows and he wishes he didn't._

Jon Snow is staring up at the sky, eyes glassy and unseeing. They say people look peaceful in death but there is nothing serene about this. The boy is blank faced and gloveless, hands still slack against the gaping wounds in his belly. 

There are more footsteps approaching, no doubt men come to see who's been slain. It's easy to notice once you look outside, this one widening patch of red in a sea of falling white.

A lad slides up on his left, comes to a complete halt at the sight of Jon. For a moment it seems as if he's going to retch instead of speak. "It’s the Lord Commander!"

That draws the lot of them. Men in black appear from every direction now. Davos recognizes one who shakes more than the rest. He'd been a good friend of Jon's. They called him Edd. 

Most of the men hesitate behind Davos, looking in a panic between Jon and themselves. They don't ask questions. Commander Snow was disliked by many but some had been more verbal in their resentment. Edd is the only one who steps forward. He takes a knee near the prone form of his friend, hands ghosting along Jon's body but never actually touching. He should take charge but the words get caught in his throat. 

A muffled sob hits the air.

Ser Davos takes pity on them. He'd liked Jon in the little time they spent together. The boy was every bit as honorable as his father and Davos respected him for it. These men such as Edd have lived and fought alongside him. It's to be expected they wouldn't know what to do with this find. Davos knows though. He's circled the sun long enough to understand how these things work.

"Help me get him inside." The command is sharp and impossibly loud, with just enough authority to kick start the men into action. They kneel next to Edd, and he watches as they gingerly lift Jon's body from the sullied snow. Davos points them towards the Lord Commanders room in a gamble that it has the strongest door. Whoever did this will be coming for them soon, no matter where they decide to hole up.

Seaworth catches Edd by the shoulder before he can make to follow the rest inside. The lad looks disturbingly vacant, eyes wide and glistening. Unfortunately there is no time for feeling right now.

"I need you to go and fetch the wildlings." Davos speaks slowly, watching as each word registers in the boys mind. 

Tollett hesitates, gaze flickering over to his brothers in time to glimpse Jon's boot just before it disappears into the room. He sniffles, and for a horrifying moment it looks like he might cry. 

To Davos's relief the boy swipes a hand across his face, answers with a stiff upper lip.

"Aye," His voice is weak but burning with resolve. "I'll bring 'em if it's the last thing I do." They are of the same thought but for different reasons. Davos knows the free folk will fight to keep what little land they've been given, and Edd remembers walking into Jon's cabin that morning. He'd been greeted by Giantsbane, the wildling's neck littered with love bites. 

Edd is not an especially wise man but he's got enough wits about him to notice that the looks those two give each other aren't exactly platonic, they always linger just a little too long.

Even if none of the others come, he knows Tormund will. 

With that in mind Edd heads for the gate. There doesn't seem to be anyone on watch, all of the men either holed up with Jon or plotting with the man who killed him. If Tollett is lucky he'll be able to snag a horse on the way out.

* * *

The trek into their new land is relatively short. Tormund would be amiss to say he's never been here before. He's spilled blood on this ground, as have so many of his brethren. It wouldn't be easy for Jon to obtain, not when everyone knows why it's clear in the first place. He'll have to find some way to repay the crow for being so kind to a people these lands have long forgotten. 

They get the young and old settled which is an easy thing. The children play and the elders watch from nearby while every other able bodied wildling works on setting camp for the night. It's sobering to look around and see how few of them are left. The last of the free folk. 

Ground trembles as Wun Wun buries a crudely cut tree. It will serve as the centerpiece to a shelter. Tormund watches the giant move, more sluggish than ever before. These days he's beginning to look ancient, having lived long before Tormund was brought into this world. If the stories are true he should live many years after this generation has passed. 

What a lonely existence that will be.

The titan towers on his way past, like some great moving mountain. The redhead regards him silently, startled by how much smaller he appears without Mag the Mighty hovering nearby. They'd been especially close, never one without the other. Giantsbane feels something ache, hollow and strange behind his ribcage. Who is standing with Jon now that he is gone? The crows chubby friend is smart but Tormund's never seen him wield a blade. And while Edd is an admirable fighter it's not enough to give the wildling any comfort.

Their parting had been bittersweet at best. It was too dangerous for touching and he'd wanted so badly to be strong, reassure Jon that this terrible omen is nothing more than aftershocks of the trauma they'd suffered a Hardhome. Now the crow's not here and Tormund feels his confidence waning. 

He's trying really hard not to think about that, shove the thoughts somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. _Jon is okay._ He's probably in the mess hall with his mangy friend or taking Ghost out for an evening walk. Either way his crow is fine, safe within the walls of Castle Black. 

Around him the camp is booming with activity, people erecting tents and others hacking away at trees to provide wood. Everyone has a job to do. There is little food left so Giantsbane takes the best hunters and together they scatter into the forest in search of game. It's near feeding time now, animals will be easier to sneak up on. They manage a few deer and several rabbit before the sun starts it's downward arch. Tormund's quick enough with a bow to strike three birds from the pink striped sky, fingers deft with years of practice. 

Back at the settlement they spend time skinning the days catch, cleaning until meat is prepared to be stuck on a spit and placed over the fire. With any luck no one will go to sleep hungry tonight. 

Once finished Tormund diligently gathers up the hide and usable bone from his kills. In the North nothing goes to waste. Skin and furs will be processed to make clothing while the stronger bones are picked for weapons. A few people around camp are known for the quality of their craft. Giantsbane leaves the spare parts with them, uncharacteristically dragging his feet along the way. The sun is setting and his hands are now bare, nothing to keep his thoughts from drifting. 

There is a dread in his belly, nameless and festering. 

Near the center of their encampment the children are gathered in a makeshift circle, each one intently working a blade against hollowed bone. Among the tiny faces he finds Karsi's two young daughters, though he supposes they're orphans now. Together they huddle for warmth, cheeks grubby with layers of grime from the journey into their new home. 

Wordlessly Tormund pulls the leather strap of his coat. It's an old thing, well worn and filthy from the days hunt. It can be washed tomorrow once they find a source of freshwater, but tonight it will keep them warm in place of their mothers embrace. 

The children startle at the feel of fur on their shoulders, preheated and heavy. Looking up they recognize the redhead as a friend, his kind smile and crinkled eyes reminding them of the home they've fled. 

Overseeing the young is a woman who catches Tormund's gaze. Her hair is graying at the top, the silver strands mixing with ringlets so dark he's reminded of Jon. Tormund can still feel the ghost of curls against his palm.

A chill works its way down the wildling's spine and he finds himself desperately hoping Snow lives long enough to see the grey years.

Giantsbane glances to the clouds, golden and pulled thin as cotton in the dying light. There's not a trace of blue left in the sky, and he thinks morbidly about the way Jon looked at him on that boat. They were tangled together, heat was everywhere and the crows mouth tasted so sweet. Those moments lingered, dragging on in a way that had over shined the subtle seconds where Jon stilled above him, eyes bleak with a terror Tormund can now feel settling like rock in the riverbed of his stomach.

Fuck, he should've been paying better attention. Everything _seemed_ alright when they parted but he knows Snow better than to assume. Just because Jon's no longer bringing it up does not mean he's stopped thinking about it all together. 

Only a fool would abandon his people and run back to Castle Black on a gut feeling. 

Tormund supposes this makes him a fool then. 

The falling night will be a cold one even for a place South of the wall. Smoke from the campfires billow upwards in thick shadows, so dark it blocks out the stars. 

A black sky will make travel difficult but that won't be enough to stop him. The sooner he returns to Castle Black the better. Once he sees the crow they can have a proper talk about what happened at Hardhome and why it made Jon feel as though he were going to _die._ If he could just understand what Snow saw there's always a possibility he can stop it from happening. 

His bags are still packed. If he goes now he can make it to the wall by morning.

There's a rustling in the heavily wooded area to the right of their encampment. Tormund reaches for his axe, as does every other wildling who'd heard the noise. An anxious silence settles over them. From across the camp Dim Dalba catches his gaze and Tormund cringes. His people are no doubt sharing the same thoughts. Giantsbane knows better though, stands by what he said earlier. If they were going to be ambushed it would have happened at the gates upon their return. 

Nonetheless there is something foul in the air.

A horse neighs softy, the stomp of its hooves drawing closer. The animal stops just before breaking the clearing.

Only one figure emerges from the treeline, stumbling through brush on unsteady legs. They pause at the sight of so many weapons, spooked, but by no means do they attempt retreat. Tormund is surging forward, the knots in his stomach growing somehow tighter.

He sees the newcomer has hair straighter than Jon's, and his heart plummets. That unease is back, thick like bile creeping up his throat.

The figure, clearly a man of the night's watch seems to double over, palms finding purchase at his knees. Surrounding freefolk watch pensively as the man's hands shift to cup his mouth.

"Where in the bloody fuck is Tormund!?" 

The brother startles to find that Giantsbane is already upon him.

"I'm right here boy!" Tormund's voice reverberates through the small clearing. He shoulders through the crowd that has gathered. Some of the wildlings hold torches to help light his way.

"Where is your King Crow?" He doesn't ask so much as demand, urgently closing the little space that is left between them. The stranger is covered in blood. It's the first thing Tormund actually notices, alarm increasing as he realizes he knows this crow. This is Edd, the one who had come with them to Hardhome. Just this morning he'd walked into their cabin and left pink in the cheeks. 

Now he has tear tracks streaking his face.

Tormund's mind collapses into panic. Instinctively he lurches forward, dropping the axe in favor of closing his fingers around Edd's throat.

"Where is Jon Snow?" The words are wet with a frightened kind of rage. His hands clench, desperate for answers. Edd's clawing at his neck by the time Wun Wun reaches out to capture the back of Tormund's tunic. The giant pulls him off with the gentlest tug. 

_Jon's fine,_ that's what Tormund spent the day telling himself, repeating the words in a mantra as if that would make them true. 

It does not make them true. 

Edd falls forward, breathing in great jagged gasps. Around his neck raw ringlets are already rising, ten finger shaped welts. His eyes meet Tormund's slowly, and the wildling knows with mounting dread what he's come here to say.

There is a high pitched whine, like bells ringing. It clouds his mind but does nothing to stifle the panic. For a split second he's somewhere else entirely, at another place in a different time, laying on a bed of furs with Jon bare above him, shaking, shaking. _"I care about you too, but I don't think it's going to matter much in the end."_ The boy's breath is on his face, and Tormund responds by gripping pale hips to keep the tremors at bay. 

"They killed him." Tollett wheezes, confirming Tormund's worst fear, dragging him back to this horrible reality. "Fucking Alliser and his mates. They caught him alone in the courtyard and butchered him!" Edd speaks the words with such emotion that his small frame shakes with it. "And they've surely taken the castle by now." His neck has become somewhat discolored, sure to bruise. Good. He failed to protect Jon.

But then again so has Tormund.

The wildling sucks in a breath, eyes clenched shut as the message settles against his ribcage. In his mind he can see the crows face, glimpses of Jon's stubbled cheek pressed against iron bars and that first tentative smile sent his way when the grief of losing Ygritte had been fresh and festering between them. He sees Jon's chin mottled with bruises after Hardhome, flashes of him bathed in the glow of candlelight. And then Tormund imagines the boy cold, blue in the lips as Ygritte had been the last time he saw her. The finality of it swells, and in seconds Giantsbane can feel it rotting away his insides, all consuming. 

_He is too late._

He's always too fucking late.

This is Jon's premonition come true, whatever he'd been trying to warn Tormund about on the boat-

_"It won't be enough to save me."_ Snow said in the safety of their shared cabin, shadows dancing across the high arch of his cheek. Tormund could see the grim set of his brow, responded by kissing his forehead until the skin there was smooth and amiable. He thought maybe the crow was still bothered by their earlier conversation of Ygritte and what it had been like to set her on a pyre. 

He knows now Jon was plagued by the knowledge of how soon Tormund would be building one of his own. 

The world explodes into chaos around them but Giantsbane struggles to hear, his mind caught on Jon's bittersweet smile and that god awful ringing. _Stay out of trouble_ he'd said and _I make no promises but i'll try._ Jon responded, putting on a brave little smile because somehow he knew it would be the last time. He knew and he wanted Tormund to have that last good memory. 

Somewhere deep inside him Tormund feels something _break._

It's as if he's submerged in deep water while all the people on the surface are whispering back and forth, a chorus of building distress. 

_The Lord commander is dead?_

_Does that mean we are no longer safe in this land?_

_What are we to do now?_

Giantsbane can hear them talking but he does not process any of it. He and Edd are in their own little bubble of shock.

"Where is his body?" Tormund looks out right feral, itching to know what's happened to the body that hovered over his own and fucked him into oblivion, mouth so pretty and soft. At the end of it all Jon had only one thing to ask. 

_"If I die you must promise me here and now that you'll be sure to burn my body."_

Tormund should've promised.

Edd isn't surprised when the wildling reaches for him a second time, fingers clenching the front of his tunic. He's taken too long in answering and Giantsbane compensates by shaking him hard enough to elicit a response. 

"D-Davos and a few good brothers have him holed up in a room but they wont last for long, not with God damned Alliser knocking at their door." Edd is speaking in shallow bursts, his throat sore and aching. He doesn't blame Tormund though, not after what he's seen. "If we don't do something he'll kill 'em and then he'll fucking come for you." The crow looks past Giantsbane to the growing group of wildlings listening in on their conversation. "All of you."

Tormund releases Edd before he's finished getting the words out. The redhead shoves past him, stopping just long enough to snatch up the axe he'd dropped, knuckles straining stark white against the weapons mahogany handle. It doesn't matter if his people follow. Tormund will tear the castle apart with his bare hands if he has to. He will do it so that he can take Alliser apart slow. 

Tollett came here on a horse. Tormund finds it on the outskirts of their encampment. Edd is a rugged fellow but he was kind hearted enough to leave the animal here in case they killed him on sight for running around in the dark. Giantbane might be impressed if he wasn't so numbed with rage. He mounts the horse, barely registering the sound of Dim Dalba and Edd rallying the rest of the freefolk. The mare is still recovering from it's journey here but she seems to sense Tormund's urgency, starts into a sprint the moment he squeezes his legs around her massive ribcage. 

Snow had known this was coming. 

_Thank you_ he'd said, curls shining under the midday sun. Tormund had been thinking about the soft shape of Jon's lips, wishing he could steal a kiss. He hadn't realized the boy was trying to say _goodbye_ -

The thought is sickening, and Tormund clutches at the leather reins to keep from lurching over as it crosses his mind. He can distantly hear the thunder of footsteps moving his way, Wun Wun and the others following close behind.

His fury is so potent it could burn down this forest, maybe even all of Westeros and the North with it.

The moon lights his way, casting ominous shadows across towering pines. There was a time when Tormund would have been cautious of the dark and everything that lives there. Now he barrels through, daring anything to try and stop him. 

Giantsbane is murderous by the time he sees the outline of Castle Black on the horizon. 

* * *

Alliser gives a tempting speech but Davos has heard them all before. Even the men around him seem to understand that Thorne is full of shite. The moment that door opens they will most likely join Jon in the grave. It's a harsh reality, and one they absolutely will not submit to willingly. If that monster wants in this room he'll have to use force.

"I’ve never been much of a fighter." Seaworth turns to address his comrades, not one of them he's known for more than a day. These will be the men who die beside him, and for that Davos regards them as brothers. 

The onion knight moves to retrieve Longclaw, still on the table where Jon had left it. He pauses a moment before touching the ivory pommel, thumb caressing the intricate carving with a deep sort of reverence. It's doubtful things would have gone as they did if Jon had been wielding this sword. Those men were cowards, luring him out into the open weaponless.

Davos hopes he repays at least a few. 

"Apologies for what you’re about to see." Carefully he unsheathes the weapon, slightly encouraged by the weight of her in his hand. The brothers follow his lead, brandishing swords and baring their teeth. They might not be many but by God they will be fierce. 

Thorne's voice comes muffled from the other side, one last warning.

Seconds later something strikes the door with such force a bolt drops from its hinges. The piece of metal clatters noisily to the floor, sealing their fates. Even Ghost seems to understand what's happening, his savage growl echoing through the small room.

Another pin falls. They're only a few whacks in but the wood is already starting to give. If Davos had to guess it's the work of a well forged sledgehammer.

They've run out of time. Around him men flinch at the sound of banging on their door. A tiny part of Davos had been holding out hope that Edd would make it back in time. He hadn't planned on dying this night but so be it. If he's going to die it might as well be in some sort of service to his king. 

He hopes Stannis will be proud. Perhaps his sweet princess Shireen would grow up to write stories about him. 

The wood splinters. One last swing and suddenly torch light is flooding the room. Davos clutches Jon's sword and prays the boy isn't somewhere watching.

A tremendous thud resonates from the front gate, so powerful it drowns out the sound of iron splitting timber.

Around them walls tremble, the rooms ceiling raining sand and small debris as its foundation is jarred. Through the fresh gap in their door Davos witnesses Thorne's expression shift with confusion before dropping in dreadful recognition. Davos feels his shoulders sag, distantly aware that such a noise could only be made by one thing. 

The men turn to see what's coming but Seaworth doesn't bother. He knows with an eerie confidence they've already won.

"Well come on lads, those are our saviors out there!" Davos makes it outside in time to watch the gate come crashing down. And by god a real live giant is on the other side of it. Shireen had read to him stories of titans but he never believed until seeing one dead under the tunnels of Castle Black. They're even more awestriking with life in their eyes. 

The redheaded wildling is leading them. He and Edd are first to step foot in the courtyard. Many men of the watch hold bows, all nocked and aimed at vital regions. Tollett pauses at the sight of them but Tormund does not. He barely takes notice, gaze drawn to the stark patch of bloodied black snow. It's shaped just like his crow. 

Alliser is the fool to speak up and catch his attention, brave enough for words while ordering others into action. Giantsbane is blindingly furious at the sight of him, blood still staining his gloved hands. Only one man is idiot enough to take up arms and charge. Tormund cuts him down ruthlessly, eyes trained on Thorne as his sword separates flesh. The bastard looks around at the rest of his watch but there is no help to be found. They've seen what the ginger wildling is capable of and Alliser is not worth their blood. 

"Fight, you cowards!" Spittle flies from Thorne's mouth, his voice colored with the desperation of a cornered animal. There is still no movement from crows on the ground but Tormund hears the familiar whistle of an arrow being loosed from somewhere up high. Beside him Wun Wun grunts, colossal body turning sharply towards the balcony. Seconds later Giantsbane finally catches a glimpse of the half wit crow, his legs curled in massive fingers. Wun Wun swings him into the nearest castle wall, taking satisfaction in the squelched smacking noise his body makes upon impact. 

The giant tosses what's left of him on the ground at Alliser's feet. Men gaze upon the mutilated remains, horrified. The sound of bows and swords clinking as they hit the ground follows soon after.

Tormund wants to seize the moment, run that fucking Alliser through right on the spot. He wants the man to bleed out in this god forsaken courtyard just as his crow did. It would be too quick for his liking though. Giantsbane wants this particular bastard to have time. Time to know whats coming. Time to let fear fester in his belly. After that Tormund will kill him slow, maybe even skin him alive as he's seen the Thenn's do. 

Alliser seems to know his thoughts, face twisted into an ugly sneer as they approach him. Edd is at Tormund's side, filling the place where Jon should be. 

"You fucking traitor!" He doesn't speak to Tormund, still true to the belief that wildlings are not worth his breath. That's all good and well. Edd responds with the same furious grief that Tormund feels burning a hole through his sternum.

"The only traitors here are the ones who shoved knives into their Lord Commander’s heart!" With the way his voice breaks Tormund can only imagine that Edd has his own ideas about how Alliser should meet his end. They had been close, he knows. Jon always spoke of the man so fondly, much like he did that round fellow Sam who hardly left his side. Tormund wonders where they were when Jon was getting stabbed by his brothers. 

Thorne has a lot to say for a dead man. "For thousands of years the Night’s Watch has held Castle Black against the wildlings."

Tormund takes a menacing step forward, skin crawling hot with rage as he looks into the eyes of this man who slaughtered his crow in cold blood. "Until you." The words come as a forceful snarl. He might've lost his temper and killed the bastard right then and there if not for that little brat he and Ygritte spared before the battle of Castle Black, the one who'd Jon so affectionately took under his wing. The little cretin shouts, surging at Tormund with a sword that's half his size. Giantsbane has never wanted to harm a child before but there's blood on the boys clothing and it takes all of Tormund's restraint to unarm Olly and hand him over to someone else before the urge to hurt him prevails. 

"Throw them into the cells where they belong." Edd is the only man of the watch left with enough authority to give orders. His men and a few wildlings flank Alliser, gathering up all the traitor crows. They are dragged off towards the same cell that Tormund had been in once before, the one that Jon saved him from.

These men will know no such saviors. 

Tormund catches Edd by the shoulder, face blank despite the hole that grows in his chest. _"Where is he?"_

* * *

Edd leads them back towards a room Tormund vaguely recognizes as the Lord Commanders cabin. He'd been there once or twice, helping Jon move in. Now the door is unsalvageable, a large hole hacked into its center. The man they call Davos has followed them. He is Stannis's right hand. Giantsbane remembers seeing him in the crowd at Mance's execution.

They say he'd been the one to find Jon's body.

The room is cast in shadows. There are no torches lit here, and no one bothers to light one now. The open door gives off just enough illumination that Tormund can make out the shape of his crow. They've got him on a table, the same one he and Jon used to look over a map of Hardhome only weeks before. 

Giantsbane closes the distance in two long strides. 

Oh

_Oh good fucking lord._ They really did butcher him. Jon's always been a pale thing but this shade is too white. And his fucking hair is ruined. It's soaked up all the blood, lays matted and cracked against his head. Tormund can still make out the curls though, tangled as they are.

The wildlings head tips forward, chin tucked into his neck as if he'd been struck in the face. 

It takes time for him to gather enough courage to look upon the rest of Jon's body, and when he does it's like pulling teeth. Tormund does it though, carefully detailing the deep gouges torn into his crows leather tunic. Five of them he counts, committing their placement to memory. Alliser will have a set to match soon enough.

The man reaches out to shove filthy hair away from Jon's face, fingers yearning to touch the body he's been intimate with. His hand convulses only inches short of making contact. Snow had been so warm then, alive in every way.

By this time he's been gone for several hours, and everything in Tormund rallies against the idea of his crow being so goddamn cold.

"Took a lot of knives." The wildling's voice wobbles, grief heavy as lead on his tongue. Tormund can still see the way Jon looked at him, so utterly resigned to this fate. So fucking afraid. _Just promise you'll hurry back,_ The crow told him, a troubled little crease in his brow.

Now he is laid out on this fucking table, all because Tormund was so short sighted he hadn't realized the boy was asking for help.

There's a rustle from the floor. Giantsbane lets his gaze drop, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of Jon's white direwolf keeping vigil near the table, crimson eyes wary of hands near its master. A good boy, Snow would have called him.

The animal looks up almost expectantly, and Tormund feels a wave of despair crash against his ribcage.

Who will care for it now that Jon's no longer of this world? 

The anguish settles over him so heavy Tormund staggers under the weight of it, forced to catch himself against the table. 

Tips of his fingers brush skin, so icy and unnatural It would have made him sick if he knew how to be anything other than furious. Those hands have done so much for him, everything from wielding a sword in defense of the free folk to stroking across Tormund's thigh in the heat of the night. 

He cannot bear them being so cold

"I’ll have my men get the wood for a fire. Bodies to burn." Giantsbane wretches his hands away, eyes on the floorboards because he's unable stomach the sight of his crow any longer. Davos is staring at him, an aching sort of understanding in the old man's gaze. Tormund refuses contact, leaving before the onion knight has a chance to try and offer comfort he does not deserve.

* * *

Tormund sees to it that wood is gathered. Dim Dalba promises there will be enough for Alliser and all his accomplices. The man does not mention Jon but Giantsbane can see the question in his gaze, _are we still safe here?_

He doesn't know. He doesn't particularly care. Without Jon and Ygritte there is nothing left for him here. 

Ah, but those girls. Karsi's young daughters. All the people back at camp. It would be spitting in the face of Jon's memory to give up on them now, after his crow has gone and paid the price for having them here. 

"We will survive somehow. The free folk always have." It's the only reassurance he has to offer, voice hollow and flat. A harsh wind blows through, rattling the tall trees surrounding them. Dim Dalba pulls his coat closer, eyebrows creasing as he notices that Tormund's no longer wearing proper furs. He might've mentioned it, but the ginger is already lighting a torch. "I'm going to gather wood."

"We have wood."

Tormund glares at him, long and mournful. Dim Dalba studies the mans face, uncomfortable with how the flame almost makes it look as though his eyes are glassy. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for realization to strike. 

Giantsbane had been close with the crow that was killed. 

Dim Dalba glances back towards that soiled patch of snow. It's been covered now but everyone seems to have memorized the spot, going through great lengths to avoid it even if that means walking around the entire courtyard. Tormund sees him looking but is careful not to let his gaze wander that far. 

For a moment Dim Dalba acts as if he might offer help. One look at Giantsbane puts that thought to rest.

"Be safe." The elder wildling inclines his head, respectful enough to keep the pity out of his gaze as he turns to leave. 

Tormund ventures outside of Castle Black. By now the moon is high in the sky, nearly full. It offers just enough light to keep track of the trees, tall pines and fat cedar. They give off a smell that often clung in his crows hair. 

Jon had taken Ygritte outside the wall, into the true North to burn her body and set her spirit at rest. Alliser and his bunch can turn to ash just fine inside the castle they defended. Tormund won't allow Jon to join them. His crow will be dealt with separately, somewhere outside that foul fucking courtyard he died in. 

Tormund's been walking for half an hour when he finally finds a place. This tree stands a little taller than all the rest, it's leaves red as the blood smeared across Jon's chin. Snow had told him stories of home and the weirwood trees that grew in the Godswood. He'd taken his watchers vow in the presence of one. This would not be the same tree. Jon spoke his oath outside the wall, and while Tormund might usually feel safer having him in the true North it would not be right. Jon was born and raised in this strange land, terrible as it is. Somehow he lived and grew into the best of them.

This is not a heart tree but it'll do.

Giantsbane drops to his knees in the snow, mouth working with no sound to accompany it. So many years have passed by, he's forgotten how to pray. 

So instead he weeps, forehead falling against the weathered bark. It's a quiet kind of misery, no great heaving or choked sobs, not much sound at all even though his chest is racked with despair. The wood scratches at his cheek but Tormund feels none of it. His crow is all he sees, clipped moments and stolen glances, a tiny hand against the nape of his neck and Jon's face in the early morning, smile soft with sleep. There's a flash of the ocean and Snow's small frame a silhouette against the water. His skin remembers the feel of Jon against him, sweaty and sticky and throbbing with life. 

Tormund feels his heart split down the middle

He could've had more of that. 

So many things he wishes he could get back, do better. They had time on that boat. Tormund should have held him longer. Jon was uneasy about Alliser and that gate, maybe his dreams had told him more than he let on. Giantsbane will never know. But what he _does_ know is that Jon would have stayed if he'd asked.

If only he'd asked. Maybe he could have gotten two kisses instead of one. 

* * *

The door has been replaced by the time Tormund returns but Jon is not alone. There is a women hovering at his side, pale and dressed in varying shades of red. She's familiar in a way that sends a sharp chill down his spine. It takes Tormund a moment to place her but he does it, baring his teeth as the memory clicks into place. 

She is Stannis Baratheon's witch, the women who'd over seen Mance's burning. 

She'd lit the pyre herself.

And now she's reaching out to touch his crow, and Tormund will not stand for it. 

"Don't touch him." The wildling draws closer, sees now she holds a damp cloth between slender fingers. To her credit the women doesn't startle at his raised voice, only watches him with with a dull sort of resignation lining her features. Carefully she withdraws her hand. 

"It does not matter now who touches him. He is dead."

 _"It matters."_ Tormund snatches the rag from her hands. "He matters more than any man here." Jon was worth the whole lot of them combined, displayed more bravery in one day than those fools experienced in a lifetime. "Now leave us lass, before I lose my temper with ya. "

The women glances between them once, twice, her eyes filled with a familiar sort of grief.

"I am sorry for your loss."

The sincerity in her voice takes him by surprise. He hears the door open seconds later, shutting quick enough to keep the wind out. 

From the floor Ghost whines. He's moved closer to the table, keeping careful eyes on everyone who reaches for Jon in this state. Tormund wonders if it understands, and for a strange moment he finds himself envying this animal. Wise men say that ignorance is bliss. Tormund always thought it was to keep the poor and low caste from asking questions. Now he realizes there is an awful truth to those words. 

Giantsbane yearns for the few moments of numbness experienced before Edd trampled into camp, carrying with him a news so terrible it's stripped all things good and kind from his world. 

Jon went without knowing he was loved. Tormund never told him, not in a way that counts.

But he _had_ said it. In that tiny fucking cabin on the way back from Hardhome, hours after they'd finished fondling. Jon was laying on top of him, the boy's head tucked safely under Tormund's chin. His hair had smell of pine and Tormund remembers curling an arm around the crows bare shoulders. Snow looked so peaceful there, even with that nasty gash around his eye.

Giantsbane thought about how he received such a mark, fighting the white walker that almost killed him. His brave little crow. "Gods, I love you." He'd whispered against a tangle of curls, entire body going rigid as Jon shifted against him, pressing a cheek into the crook of Tormund's neck. There was a moment where he'd thought maybe he felt the boy's lips twitch into a smile, but his snores continued so quickly Tormund was sure he hadn't heard. 

With trembling hands Giantsbane rewets the rag, unnecessarily careful as he bring the cloth to Jon's pallid cheek. This cut would have scared had Jon lived long enough to see it healed. Tormund cleans it with care, bile creeping up his throat as the cold seeps into his palm. 

"I love you." The wildling leans down, pressing a kiss to that spot which should scar but wont. Tormund's breath hitches at the feel of ice against his lips. _I loved you_

There's a soft tapping on the door. Giantsbane cuts his eyes up in time to see the Onion knight stepping through the threshold. It would seem he's alone, face somber as his gaze land on Snow. 

"Tormund is it? I'm Davos Seaworth." The man extends a hand to him, respectable and polite. It all feels wrong with Jon laid out on the table between them. Tormund takes his hand anyways, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Strong grip for an old man."

"Aye. Older than you but not too old to be of service." 

"What service could you possibly have to offer?" Tormund doesn't know what possess him to be rude to this man who's done so much to preserve his crow's body. It must be the stress of knowing they all failed, in the end. 

It makes sense that Davos has come to try and sway him to the side of Stannis. The freefolk would be good soldiers for Baratheon's army, easily expendable. 

Tormund bites back the urge to spit at the mans feet. His people would rather go home to the true North and die free rather than kneel in the south for a king who would see them all dead anyways.

Davos answers without missing a beat, completely unphased by the wildling's spiked accusation. He's observed the puffy quality of Tormund's face, how his eyes tint red around the edges. This is a man in mourning, at the end of his rope. "Yes, he sure did that. And he took my fingers even though I helped him win a war." As if to prove a point Davos removes his gloves, wiggling his little stumps proudly. "My king believes in fair punishment. In some ways it makes him a better ruler." Or it _had_ , until Melisandre had stepped in with her Lord of Light. Davos can hardly believe what he's about to suggest. 

"And other times it's a hindrance. I didn't come here to talk with ya about Stannis though. I came in the hopes we may still be able to help Jon."

Giantsbane winces as if Davos has told a joke of bad taste. "We'll help him by burning his body so the Night King can't get him. What more could we do at this point?" He means the words to be scathing but there's still an edge of wonder to his voice. Logically Tormund knows there is nothing to be done, and yet something inside him clings to the idea of helping his crow, be it in this life or the next. 

"That may be true but hear me out. The red women believes in magic, I've seen her perform some of it with my own eyes." Davos pauses, shuddering at the memory. Melisandre can do great evil, but it's his hope that she can also do great good. "Now there's no promise she will succeed but I think it's our duty to at least try. We owe Jon that much don't we?"

"I owe him everything." Tormund's voice is raw, hand finding its way back into Jon's hair. He is afraid to hope, but at the same time he is willing to do anything, try _anything_ at even just a chance of knowing the crow is at peace, wherever he is. 

"Then I suggest you help me convince the red women to aid in our cause."

* * *

Melisandre is surprisingly easy to persuade. Of course it wasn't really them who convinced her. According to Davos she'd had a vision from the Lord of light telling her that Jon's life is important enough to be saved. 

That's all good and well but Tormund didn't need any kings or gods to tell him that.

It's uncharted territory. The red women has never attempted it before. This type of sorcery is highly unpredictable and they don't want word getting out. Even the one crow on guard has been sent to rest. Tormund, Davos and Edd are the only ones present for this so called ceremony. Together they hover near the back, anxiously silent. The weight of what they are doing is not lost on them. Dark magic such as this has been banned in some parts of the world, for good reason. 

Ghost will not leave Jon's side. Edd tried moving the animal once. The sound it made was so discouraging most of them take great care to stay out of reach. 

Tormund is glad the wolf has stayed. Jon never spoke of it but the wildling could see that having his direwolf around made Snow feel safe, as if he'd been able to bring a piece of Winterfell with him to this awful place. The animals ears twitch, and seconds later Melisandre floats into the room.

The priestess is a curious lass, ordering Davos to get a fire burning in the furnace while she wets a cloth and goes about wringing it out. Tormund knows that she will use it to clean Jon's wounds just as he'd done on the night they sailed away from Hardhome, just as he'd stopped her from doing earlier.

Her hands are smaller than his, and one might expect the touch to be soft. It is not. Melisandre handles Jon with little care, like she would any dead thing. Such a contrast to Tormund's gentle caresses. Jon wouldn't know it though. He can't feel anything anymore, so to Melisandre it doesn't matter how he's held.

Next she goes about picking up a pair of shears. The furnace gives off a steady glow, flames licking the air in search of oxygen. Davos had made quick work of it, all the supplies prepared in advance. Tormund had thought it just a source of light until she cuts a few black curls from Jon's head, adding them with the few she takes from his beard.

Ah, Jon wouldn't have liked that. Always so particular about his hair. The strands are tossed into the awaiting fire. Tormund watches them burn away and wonders if the ache in his chest is similar to what Jon had felt watching Ygritte turn to ash.

Melisandre puts her hands on his chest then, speaking in a language Tormund has never heard before. It sounds rightly wicked but nothing is happening. And now that he's here the wildling realizes just how profoundly desperate this is. No one can raise the dead, at least not in a way that keeps them intact. They are fools to be trying this. He is a fool, and he'd let grief get the better of him.

"Please." Someone begs, slow and hopeless. Tormund's not sure if it was him or the red women. There are tears shining in her eyes as she turns to regard them, and for a moment Giantsbane is nearly overwhelmed by fear, something so deep and dark he doesn't have words for it. But it's a senseless thing to feel. He has nothing to lose. 

Only now it's dawning on him that there is nothing to gain, either. Jon is dead and that's the end of it.

Stoically the wildling shakes himself, teeth caught on the inside of his cheek as a means of keeping the sting from his eyes. A few seconds longer and Melisandre drops her hands from the crows chest, looking utterly abashed as nothing significant happens. 

Tormund ignores her, the green of his gaze passing over Jon's form one last time. After this he will build a pyre under that weirwood tree and maybe if they're lucky Jon and Ygritte will find each other in the next life.

Maybe Tormund will join them.

He is the first to leave, unable to stand in the spot where all hope died any longer. Melisandre follows him out with her head lowered, useless. Edd and Davos linger until Tollett's finished sniffling, regaining composure before going out and being seen by the men. 

Seaworth is the last to go, achingly sorry for this boy who would have grown into an honorable man. Davos knows the pain of losing a son. It's probably a blessing that Ned Stark died before ever having experienced such grief. It is his wish that Snow has found peace with the other Starks, the best he can hope for the lad now. Ghost is still under the table, peacefully unaware of their failure. If Davos had not been careful he might've stepped on the beast as he turned to leave. 

No one is there to witness the moment of reckoning. It's only the direwolf who senses something has changed, picking it's head up to investigate. The room is silent for a moment more. Ghost watches his master's body convulse once, twice, and then there's the sound of breathing, harsh and frantic, filling lungs that were never supposed to expand again.

Jon Snow opens his eyes and he doesn't understand _why._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. I was especially anxious about this chapter because I struggled with it for so long. And I want to say again that im grateful to everyone who took the time to comment and inspire me to keep going. You guys are the greatest! 
> 
> For the next chapter I plan on Tormund and Jon having some special time to reunite, but after that the mutineers will be dealt with. I'll try to write it in a way that you could skip that part if needed. 
> 
> I've got some art up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Darlingpleased1/status/1144409694393511938) if you want to check it out. Thanks again!!!


	6. Polyhymia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was...I don't fucking know." Snow says carefully, stomach churning as he considers it. Any answer would be complicated, probably raise even more questions. Tormund comforts the crow by running a damp cloth down his back. Jon's almost clean by now, but not nearly warm enough.
> 
> "I was dead and that's dreadful, but I dreamed of you." The crow says finally, his admission soft in the air between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bitch! I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me lol.
> 
> Honestly the final season of Thrones kicked my ass and i'm still recovering. Life is hard. I thought about quitting alot but there was so much support I had to continue. So this is for everyone who took the time to comment or leave kudos. You guys are the reason I made it.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer, I own nothing!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Drive me out of my mind_  
_I'll be yours and you'll be mine_  
_Baby haunt me when you die_  
_Just give me time, just give me time_  


-Keaton Henson

* * *

Jon wakes gasping for breath. Through all the struggling his mind is caught on one undeniable thought-

_He should not be here._

But he doesn't quite understand _why_. His room is almost as it had been when he left, almost but not quite. Papers are gone from the table he lies on, and Longclaw is no longer within reach. It looks as though the door is barely hinged.

Someone's gone and let Ghost out.

It's all familiar and wrong and Jon's mind grapples with the details. His consciousness is murky, memories distorted as though they are being strung back together after some deep sleep. There is iron on his tongue, flaky and stale. Worse than that is an emptiness where his heart used to beat. Jon feels hollow, scooped clean of everything that matters. 

_Something has happened to him._

Ghost rises warily from the floor, paws scraping gently across worn wood. Maroon eyes are careful, searching. Jon watches the animal, but doesn't feel anything when Ghost nudges his hand. It should be cold and wet, comforting as it's always been. 

There is none of that. If not for seeing Jon wouldn't know he was being touched at all.

Anxiety ignites his insides, pieces of memory clicking into place one by one.

He remembers seeing the gate open upon their return from Hardhome, Tormund's hand cupping the back of his neck as they said goodbye. 

There is a sour spot growing in the pit of his stomach, something that twists like betrayal.

Everything returns too fast after that. Olly appearing in his door way, the word traitor carved into a wooden post. Flashes of metal glinting under the moonlight and fear so thick he choked on it.

Jon feels his pulse pitch wildly.

He relives the ambush in vivid detail, recalls their faces just as well as the shape of their blades. They'd left him in the courtyard and by all accounts he should've died there.

So why is he here in this room, where everything is the same but different?

It registers in that moment, a terrible dawning of recognition that brings every hair on Jon's body to standing. 

He _had_ died there. He went alone under the stars, drowning on dry land.

But where is all the blood? He'd been bathed in it before, remembers feeling it cool against his skin. There is no conceivable reason for having him cleaned, no reason for keeping him around at all. Alliser would have wanted Jon gone the moment he was finished naming himself Lord Commander. The more men to see his body the more to know what a coward their new leader is, and that sort of thing leads to unrest in the ranks. 

Jon peers at the door, raking over the damage it's taken. There has obviously been a battle of sorts.

Thorne _must_ be in charge by now.

The knowing sends a wave of sickness through him. Emptiness has been filled with a creeping dread. Whatever he is now, it's unnatural. And there is only one being he knows with such a power as to bring the dead back to life.

Did the Night King come through with his army? Jon used to feel safe behind this wall, but after Mance attacked Castle Black he learned that nowhere is truly safe. What walks in the night could take it easily.

Is he one of them now?

And what has become of Tormund and Edd? If Alliser hadn't killed them the Night King surely would have.

Ghost nudges him again, and this time Jon feels it as a phantom touch. Just enough to get his attention, stop his thoughts from racing.

Outside there is the low hum of people talking, carried on Northern wind. The voices sound human, none of the eerie silence brought on by the dead. Everything is as it should be except for Jon. He is not meant to be part of this world anymore. 

Being here feels wrong in the worst way. 

Snow struggles to sit up, hysteria offering a false sense of calm. His body is stiff in a way it's never been before, cold like that of a corpse. 

The smell of death is heavy in this room, lingering on Jon's skin. 

It's going to make him sick. 

There is a basin near the table, it's full of murky water. Jon finds himself retching over the bowl. It takes time for him to gather enough courage to risk a glance down at the crescent shaped wounds carved into his abdomen. They stare back at him, the unwavering proof of his death.

Ghost howls from his place near the table.  Jon jerks at the sound of it, scrambles to quiet the animal before it draws any unwanted attention.  

_Ah, too late._

There's a noise from outside his room, someone steadily drawing closer.  And what's Jon to do? He is bare and vulnerable, still dead to some degree for all he knows. His body is stiff and cold, blood like sludge as it reheats with his skin.  Even if he wanted to defend himself the only weapon is well out of reach.

The door swings open, bringing with it the Northern air.  Jon hardly notices, hair standing on end at the sight of a familiar silhouette standing in the doorway. 

"Tor-mund?" His voice comes out wobbly and raw.  Jon shudders in wonder of what might've happened in his absence to make Giantsbane weep so openly upon seeing him.  

The wildling steps closer, face shrouded in a hysterical sort of fear.  Jon does not blame him for it.  He cannot begin to guess what he might look like.  His refection in the murky basin seemed waxy and ashen. From the texture of his hair he'd guess it's still matted with blood and snow.  Someone has cleaned the rest of him.

"Jon." Giantsbane breathes his name with reverence.  "Gods, is it really you?" He asks, a half sob hitting the air between them.   Tormund is reaching for him then, fingertips ghosting over chilled flesh. Jon isn't sure what to tell him, shies away from the touch. 

"I-I don't know." The boy croaks "I don't know what I am." He makes to cover his face but larger hands catch at his wrists. Snow jerks away from the contact but Giantsbane holds him still.

"Look at me Jon Snow." The wildling reaches to smooth his hair back, green eyes searching his face with so much intensity Jon nearly cowers under it. 

"What are you looking for?"

"Nothing." He releases Jon slowly, satisfied. "It's just your eyes. They haven't changed a bit, still dark as shale." Realization dawns a moment later. Wights have eyes blue as the ice in which they reside. The knowledge is mercy. 

"Jon. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"They killed me as a traitor to the watch." A muscle in the boys jaw flexes involuntarily. "Im glad they didn't get you as well." Seems as though Snow is taking his death better than anyone.  It might be infuriating if Tormund could get past the feeling of utter relief at seeing his crow alive and whole again. 

"Aye, they might've tried if not for your mangy friend."

Giantsbane swipes a hand across his face, sniffling softly as the reality settles in. If he pinches himself to make sure this isn't a dream Jon doesn't notice. The crow is staring blankly at the deep lacerations left in his flesh, evidence of the cruelty handed down by men who called themselves brothers.

"What brought me back?"

"The red lass done it with some magic chanting." Giantsbane watches Jon absorb that information, heart aching uncomfortably. "But it was our idea, Davos an' me."  Tormund admits warily, concerned with the way Jon's lips seem to slant in disapproval.  He'd known there'd be risks.  Snow might've welcomed the peace that death brought him.  Or maybe he's different now that he's been revived.  Tormund wont know that until later. 

There are footsteps approaching, the distinct sound of boots scuffing wood. No doubt someone else coming to see what all that howling had been about. Tormund removes his coat, carefully draping it around Jon's shoulders before two faces appear in the doorway. Snow recognizes the haggard eyes of sir Davos, Edd's unruly hair covered in frost. They almost fall into the room at the sight of Jon.  Davos pulls up short while Eddison barrels forward, arms outstretched for the brother he believed to be lost. 

"Well i'll be damned, the witchcraft actually worked." He clasps Jon on the shoulder, mouth hanging open as he feels the heat seeping back to dead skin.  It's not much, just enough to prove that life's returning. "How do you feel? Is it still really you in there?"

Snow hesitates. "I think so." His entire demeanor has changed in the presence of friends, people he feels would judge if they knew how vulnerable he felt in these moments.  "I still remember your shite self don't I?"  

"Aye, and im glad for it."

 Tormund stands back only long enough for a short greeting before making himself known. "While i'm sure King crow is enjoying this warm reunion, how about letting him get dressed first yeah? It's a little too cold in here for him to go bare assed any longer."

Edd's eyes dart between them, widening slightly as he realizes they've interrupted what could have been a private moment. 

"Ah, your right. Sorry about that." The man shuffles uncomfortably, ears suddenly hot. "Im just so glad to have you back." Edd utters softly. 

Tollett pats Jon on the back one last time before making his way towards the door. "I'll go and get you some clean clothes then."  

Davos lingers, slowly circling the table as if to get a better look at Jon. It's no secret that he's mistrustful of the red women and her magic, has to be sure it's truly Commander Snow and not some sort of undead darkness.  He finds his answer in the gentle shine of Jon's eyes.  

"Davos."  The boy regards him with respect, most likely wishing he'd leave but not wanting to tell him such. "I suppose I have you and Melisandre to thank for this?" One hand gestures vaguely to himself, particularly the wounds at his gut.  Davos averts his gaze. He's seen enough.

"Oh yes.  The red women's work. For once I was thankful for it."  The onion knight shudders, mind drawn back to the first night he'd witnessed the Melisande use her magic. The evil it produced had proved deadly for poor Renly Baratheon.  It's his hope that Jon will be spared any such happening. "I'm right glad to see you again Commander Snow."

He reaches as if to pat the boys shoulder but falters in the last second, drawing his hand away.

Jon turns his eyes to the floor, pretends he didn't see.

"You're a good man Ser Davos." Snow smiles but it it feels wrong on his face, strained as if the skin has been pulled too tight. "We'll talk more later.  You can explain all this to me and I'll thank you proper." He isn't all too sure he's thankful yet but its the polite thing to say, quickest way to make the Onion knight leave. 

It takes a minute but eventually Seaworth gets the hint, excusing himself to check on the men. Jon watches and wonders how he will break the news to them, how they might take it. 

Tormund huffs softly once the rooms is theirs again.  His eyes haven't left Jon's face, searching for any changes in the crow.  He is relieved to find none, only a familiar crease in the boys brow.

 _Almost familiar_. This expression is a leap over brooding, something twisted with anguish. His lip is curled with some phantom pain, and when Tormund reaches to tip his head back he sees the boy's teeth are bared. Blood has left stains along Snow's gum line, red streaks across white bone. He looks much like a dire wolf fresh from the kill. Anyone else might think this to be rage but Tormund knows it to be barely restrained despair. He'd worn the look himself only hours before, in the clearing after Edd delivered the unthinkable. 

"What's wrong Snow? Not so grateful to be back from the dead?" Tormund reaches out just as Davos had only moments, the difference being he follows through. His hand curls tender around the nape of Jon's neck, uncaring that he touches a dead thing. 

Snow feels himself fracture under the contact.

"Oh cut the shit Tormund! It's not helping!" Jon's voice rattles his already aching lungs. A strong thumb presses against stiffened muscle in his neck, trying to calm him before he hurts himself. The crow has a fleeting urge to shrug Tormund's hand away, can't bring himself to do so. "I don't _feel_ anything anymore! I- I'm _unnatural_. No different than a wight and you're making light of it!" Snow accuses breathlessly, trembling beneath the wildling's palm.

"I shouldn't be here, damn you." Jon sags boneless against him. If not for Tormund having caught the boys wrists he might've joined Ghost on the floor.

It's instinct to argue but there's not enough anger for it. The crow is right, even if he's wrong. 

The dead should not walk but it wasn't time for Jon to join their ranks.

"It's fine if that's how you feel." The words are a soft rumble between them. "I suppose you have a right to whatever emotions you might be having." This is Jon's life and the boy had no say in any of it. They all came together for their own selfish reasons to make this happen and now Snow will be the one to live with their decision. Tormund expects to feel regret but there is nothing, just the weight of Jon leaning into his chest. 

It is selfish and terrible and he does not care, but he understands why Jon does. 

"I'd do it again." Tormund says, lighthearted but honest. 

Snow's head comes up sharply, nose flared in an anger that fills the room, makes it seem somehow colder. 

"No one asked you to. I'm not going to thank you for it."

"Ah well, I never suspected you would. Never expected it to actually work." Giantsbane had hoped, but there was no part of him that truly believed. Looking back now he can see his grief had blinded him. He knows nothing of the red women's magic. What would he have done if Jon came back a mindless wight? His crow would've had to be put down all over again and Tormund would only have himself to blame. 

"It did work though. You are alive to be angry with me and for that I have no regrets Jon Snow."

Jon sucks in a breath, and Tormund watches the fight seep out of him.

"I reckon i'd have done it too, if I had the chance." The crow admits softly. It goes unspoken that he talks about Ygritte. Tormund waits for more but there is nothing. Snow sits and he fidgets, afraid to find out what he might've lost in the revival, little parts of him that aren't coming back.

Giantsbane feels the unease like a fog in the air. Snow's skin is still chilled beneath his fingers. The fire has burned low, just a soft smolder on the other side of the room. It's not much but at the very least he can help keep the boy warm. Tormund makes to rekindle the flame but a hand snags the hem of his shirt. He turns to find Jon's eyes have taken on a wild shine. 

_Where are you going?_ Snow almost speaks, but dread wont allow the words to pass. This fear is the first thing he's felt since waking in this room. It claws at his rib cage, so deep and fast he feels sick with it. Jon finds he prefers the numbness. 

In a daze he realizes Tormund is calling his name.

"Easy, easy." There are hands on his shoulders, digging into skin just deep enough to ground him. Distantly Jon has a flash of spinning pine, recalls wishing those hands had been around to staunch the bleeding. 

Snow ducks his head, embarrassed. He does not let go.

"I ain't leaving." The wildling's voice is little more than a whisper. "Just figured i'd add a log to the fire. Maybe the heat will help you feel better."

Jon doesn't tell him it's pointless, but the boys hold loosens a fraction. Tormund stands with him until Snow painstakingly pries his fingers away.

Embers crackle as another piece of wood is tossed into the hearth. Giantsbane returns to Jon's side the moment he's finished, hands carefully pulling furs tighter around his crows small frame. To Jon the sound is almost comforting, reminiscent of cold nights spent with his siblings in Winterfell. 

Tormund focuses more on the strained rattle of Snow's breath. Jon's heartbeat fills his entire world.

That rattle pauses, and Tormund knows he's going to ask-

"What happened to Ser Alliser and Olly? All the others who were with them?" 

Giantsbane exhales as if he's trying to expel a sickness. "They are all being kept in the same little lock up you had me in back when Mance was executed." He glances towards the door, restless. "I suppose now they wait for judgement."

A sentence passed down by the very man they killed.

Jon is aware of a phantom pang near his sternum. The wildling has been uncharacteristically gentle with him.  In his minds eye Snow catches a glimpse of Ygritte, recalls a conversation that happened a life time ago. 

"You were going to give me my last rites, yeah? Just how I asked for them."

Tears have dried on Tormund's face, leaving behind small tracks as evidence of their existence.  Jon hadn't noticed before. He reaches to brush them away with the soft pad of his thumb.   

Giantsbane stills at the question, and Jon can hear a sharp little intake of breath as Tormund is reminded of the pile of wood he's gathered.  It sits just outside, waiting for them. 

"Aye, I s'pose I was." His expression, what little of it Jon can see from this angle, is pinched in grief.  "It's the least I could do." 

"Tormund," The name passes over cracked lips. "There's no way you could have known." His tone speaks to an attempt at soothing but doesn't quite cover the despondency lying beneath.

"Oh but I did know, didn't I?" The wildling's voice is colored with regret.  "You told me and I thought you was just hallucinatin' because of Hardhome." The words ring with truth but Jon can't blame him for any of it.  He wouldn't have believed the story himself had he not been the one to see it play out in the Night Kings gaze.

"Don't make that face."  Jon chases away a particularly deep crease in the man's brow. "Worrying over it now wont do us any good." Darkness lingers like a bruise under hazel eyes, and Jon guesses that Tormund has not rested since hearing news of the coupe. It was the same after Ygritte. Or so he thinks. Snow remembers not sleeping for days, awake until he'd found the potent bottle of booze that first brought him to Tormund's cell. Those memories used to be so clear. Now Jon struggles, pieces of them scattered to the wind.  

He aches to remember. 

"Go lock the door." Snow says at last, tugging at the threadbare hem of Tormund's shirt. 

A short incredulous pause follows his request. Giantsbane stands silently, one eyebrow arched at an odd angle. Jon can feel the mans eyes upon him. In a show of power he catches the wildling's gaze, and the concern he finds there almost makes him feel something. 

"This is hardly the time. You've just now come back from a visit with the reaper. Your body isn't even warm yet."

"Tormund." Jon says his name, so soft and desperate he aches at the sound of it. "Tormund please. I...I cant remember what it felt like the last time we were together." Snow runs knuckles along the hollow of his chest. It's the first contact he's initiated. Tormund shudders under the attention. 

"I have a vague sense of what I should be feeling but the sensations are all _gone._ " Jon draws in a breath. His mind is fraying at the edges. "I'm afraid this is all I am now. A husk of the man I used to be."

Giantsbane catches the boy's elbow, thumb skimming over the soft bit of flesh at his pulse point. The skin there throbs, quick and light as the wings of a humming bird. Proof Jon's heart has restarted. 

"And you think this will make you better Snow?"

Jon hesitates, fingers curling into the thick material of Tormund's under shirt. The fabric should be soft beneath his palm, worn and made from deer skin. He thinks he recognizes this one but the memories don't come. Just fabric under skin, no sensation to accompany it. 

"...I don't know. Maybe?" The boy sighs, bitter and sharp. "I just want to feel something."

This time when Jon tugs at his shirt, Tormund leans down to meet him.

The kiss is meant to be a quick one, just the lightest of touches. Something soft to test the waters. But then Jon's mouth opens again his, and Tormund _melts_. This is the kiss he wished for under the weirwood tree, the one he thought lost to him forever. 

It's such a blessing he's willing to overlook the taste of death still lingering on the crows lips. 

Jon makes as if to ask again but doesn't have to.

Tormund goes and locks the door.

* * *

Jon never leaves the table they'd settled him on.  It's just big enough to accommodate this certain deed without becoming uncomfortable. The intimacy happens slowly. Snow's hands are awkward and clumsy, uncertain. Tormund doesn't mind it. He takes one in his palm, humbled by how small it seems in comparison. Slowly he bends until his lips caress scraped knuckle. 

"My pretty crow." He says it in a whisper, so hot and choked with relief that for a moment Jon thinks he feels a twinge near his sternum. 

"I was starting to think you weren't coming back."

The wildling doesn't lets go of his hand, even as teeth find a spot between Jon's jaw and neck that never failed to make the crow squirm. 

He does not squirm, but Tormund's lips are wet and vaguely warm. Snow's spare hand falters a moment before landing in a sea of red. The hair curls softly against his fingers, and Jon finds comfort in the fact that he can feel it tickle his skin.

Giantsbane is working his way down the crow's chest, fingertips trailing tender along the bare skin of his sides- so gentle it would be maddening if Snow didn't understand his reason. Steadily the feeling is returning, and he knows it better with every kiss.

He should've been expecting the pause as Tormund drew closer to his abdomen. Jon glances down to see a strange little quiver along the wildling's shoulder. He watches Tormund press a hand to his belly, fingers splayed in a way that misses the five lacerations. They've closed but not vanished, leaving behind tender streaks of scar tissue. The wildling's thumb caresses one closest to Jon's navel. 

It _aches_ , but Jon's too caught up in Tormund to care. Looking at the mans face now he remembers holding Ygritte in her last moments, looking at the arrow that pierced her heart and thinking he'd have given anything to trade places with her. By the looks of Giantsbane he is thinking the same. 

"I'm sorry this happened to you." Jon says quietly, hand falling to rest in the scruff at Tormund's cheek. 

The kisses come to a sudden and unsatisfying halt.

"What?" 

Giantsbane draws back enough to look at him, really look at him. It's the opposite of what Snow hoped for. The crow feels scrutinized under that vast expanse of green but he doesn't break contact, doubts Tormund would allow it even if he tried. 

"Its just...You've lost us both." Jon shrugs lamely, unable to express the emotion bubbling against his ribcage. It gets caught in his throat, refusing to spill over. 

It takes a minute for Tormund to realize what the crow means. His hold on Jon's hand tightens a fraction, thumb seeking out soft flesh on the underside of the boys wrist- seeking the comfort of a beating heart.

"Aye, but I got you back." Giantsbane smiles in spite of himself, drinking in the gentle slope of Jon's cheek, curved with life. "I'm so fuckin' happy you won't be on that pyre tonight." 

It's so quiet that Jon's not sure he was supposed to hear.  The words embed themselves into the hollow part of his chest, the only evidence they'd been spoken at all.

Icy fingers close around around the nape of Tormund's neck. Snow means to draw the wildling forward but Giantsbane is already rushing to meet him halfway. 

The kiss is all tongue and teeth, flakes of copper in between. 

In time Jon begins to feel again, first hands as they grip his hips, then the pitter patter of his heart skipping as those hands trail further south. He'd told Tormund he wasn't grateful-

But he's starting to think he might be. 

"Sure you want this Snow?" The wildling asks as he kneels to find a better angle. Jon is bare and beautiful and all Tormund wants is to touch him.

"It was my idea." Jon says lightly, fingers buried in curls of flame. He tugs them, almost teasing. "You gonna make me beg for it?"

Giantsbane smiles up at him, so wide and toothy it gives Jon the rush he's been longing for. He looks upon Snow as if seeing him for the first time, realizing he is here and this is real. It causes a throb that only comes with living and loving, all the suffering in between.

"Not today." But now there's the possibility of a next time, and if Jon's feeling better then Tormund may just have him beg. 

The wildling takes Snow into his mouth and delights in the barely contained groan it elicits.  They've never done this before.  Tormund beat the Lord of Bones to death for even suggesting it and yet here he is, sucking the crow until his toes curl.  And there's no shame here.  Not after all they've survived together.  If Jon wants to feel alive then by God, Tormund will make it happen.  

This is borrowed time he's living on, they might as well make the most of it.

Nails drag across Giantsbane's scalp, desperate for something to hold. Tormund's mouth is so fucking warm, the only heat Jon can feel. Already the crow is shaking, and Tormund thinks maybe he isn't prepared for this much stimulation. They wont go far, he decides achingly. But Jon is making all these noises and he's not quite ready for them to stop, so he swallows around the boys cock and listens to the soft string of profanity that follows. 

He uses his teeth to cause a lovely jolt of friction on every bob, and would've continued if not for Jon's palm suddenly shoving at his forehead. The boy's pupils are blown wide, and Tormund understands him immediately. 

 Fingers grip the base of Snow's erection, callused and thick and stroking in perfect time. The boy nips at his bottom lip, rocking to the rhythm Tormund has set. It's not long before Jon comes gasping into Tormund's hand, his breaths a ragged hiccup.

"Is'at the feeling you was after Snow?" Tormund smirks, fingertips ghosting along the crows thigh. 

Its hard to tell with all the furs he's wearing but Jon imagine's the wildling is still in need. He reaches for the button of Tormund's trousers. 

Giantsbane catches his hand.

"Hey, wait jus' a second. I know you've got a giving nature crow but you ought to rest." His thumb circles the bone at Jon's wrist. "I can handle me self." 

Snow shudders at the contact. No one's ever loved him like this-Ygritte never had the chance. 

"Go ahead then." Jon says finally, falling back to rest on his elbows. "I'll watch."

And if that isn't one of the hottest things Tormund's ever heard. The mans heart flutters wildly, all his blood moving south.

"Well then, aren't we a feisty one." He had been fine, though now his trousers feel a little too tight. Snow motions for him to continue, and who is Tormund to argue with such a simple request?

The man slips a hand under the waist band of his pants.

Giantsbane strokes himself slowly, and true to his word Jon watches. He doesn't touch, but every now and then he'll make a small demand. Within minutes Tormund's britches are around his knees and he's pumping himself in time with Jon's suggestions, belly warm each time he looks up and sees the crows face.

"Faster." Snow smirks, knowing the power he holds, how Tormund likes to hear his voice. "Run a thumb over the head, and don't stop."

Tormund's cheeks are pink from the exertion. Jon watches a drop of sweat roll down his jaw, recognizes the jerk of muscle as Giantsbane gets closer to the edge of climax. Softly he counts down the seconds. 

The wildling finishes with a clipped little sob of relief. He leans into the table after, forehead resting in the nook of Snow's shoulder. 

It's not exactly comfortable. As Jon's senses return he begins to feel the sweat clinging to his skin. It's sticky and warm but Tormund's fingers are digging into his elbow so Jon stays quiet, hand moving to guide the wildlings fingers to his pulse point.

They stay like that for some time, chests heaving and breaths rattling the room. Tormund doesn't say anything but his hold on Jon hasn't loosened. The crow must know his grief, allows him all the time and contact he needs.  

* * *

It's quiet until Giantsbane rises to find clean water for washing.  Jon is content with the silence.  He has much on his mind since being revived, knows that soon his brothers will come to ask what he wants done with the mutineers.  And even worse, Jon knows what he must tell them. 

"Already back to brooding?" The wildling asks, his voice echoing in the small room. He returns after switching out the basin, a cloth clutched between thick fingers.

Jon snorts, non-committal. The crow slumps against him as a callused palm presses into sore muscle. Tormund works out knots with his thumb, other hand wiping the damp fabric along Snow's torso. 

"Well if you're brooding anyways maybe you'll tell me, what was it like to die?" 

Snow tenses under his hand. 

"No small talk first?" Jon mutters finally, eyes following Tormund's hand as it dips further down. The wildling cleans in sections, more thorough than he needs to be. Soon he'll have the boy fresh from head to toe.

"What if I don't want to talk about it?" 

Giantsbane doesn't hesitate, green eyes alight with kindness. "Then we wont."

Jon wasn't going to talk about it, but the ease in which Tormund handles him makes the action seem less daunting. 

"It was...I don't fucking know." Snow says carefully, stomach churning as he considers it. Any answer would be complicated, probably raise even more questions. Tormund comforts the crow by running a damp cloth down his back. Jon's almost clean by now, but not nearly warm enough. 

"I was dead and that's dreadful, but I dreamed of you." The crow says finally, his admission soft in the air between them.

Giantsbane tilts his head, and Jon continues. "It wasn't clear but I could still make out the shape of your face." Snow's hand glides through the air, fingertips grazing Tormund's cheek.

"And then everything was soft. You were gone but I felt warm." That part had been a relief. Jon left this world in a puddle of sludge, so cold it tried clinging to him even after his heart stopped beating. "In the distance I thought maybe I saw Rob and my father." They'd seemed happy enough, together with all the other Starks that fell before them. Rob even had a small child, on the arm of a beautiful foreign women Jon has never seen before. 

Ned had been surrounded by ghosts.

His father always said statues of the crypt never came close to capturing their faces. Jon finally saw that he was right. Rickard bore an uncanny resemblance to his second son. There had been a man next to him that Jon only recognized because of his stature; Brandon was fabled to have been the best looking, all dark hair and misty eyes. He seemed to be laughing with the young women at his side. Jon remembers her smile best, all shining teeth and tender eyes. Held delicately between her fingers was a crown of blue winter roses. She shifted, and the smile seemed to take on a strange little twist. 

It took Jon an alarming amount of time to realize she was looking at _him _.__

"Ygritte wasn't with them but I felt her there. I might've caught a glimpse of her if i'd be left any longer." There is no sting to his words but Tormund winces anyways.

"I like to think that part was real." The residual grief of almost seeing her is palpable between them. Tormund knows he will never regret the decision to bring Jon back, but he understands how his crow might resent him for it, just a little bit. Death sounds peaceful compared to the lives they live.

"But my brothers weren't there, and neither was Arya."  The last time he'd seen them they'd all been so small.  He'd thought they'd died that way, little bodies buried in tiny graves. If they were even buried at all. And he's so used to defeat by now he doesn't dare hope that they've lived.  He knows now that they could have, but he can't put faith into it.  To find them dead after that might undo whatever magic is holding him together.

Giantsbane remains quiet for a time, has turned the washcloth on himself.   Jon's eyes follow the rag as it's stroked across Tormund's flaccid member, fingers twitching at the sight.  If things were different he'd wipe the wildling down himself but as it is he doubts Tormund would want to be touched by his frigid hands.  "Do you think they've been alive all this time? Could be hidin'. Little ones are good at that sort of thing."

"I....I don't know."  Jon stares down at his hands, digs absently at the black flecks of dried blood beneath cracked nails.  "I'm not sure that everything I saw was real.  it could have just been my mind stroking off as I died."

The wildling has risen again, this time to dress himself and wander around the room in search of proper bandages. He finds them lying just outside the door, along with the clothes that Edd had promised. Tormund might worry more about what the man could've heard but he's already proven himself a trustworthy friend. If he'd had any ill will towards Jon it would have been an easy fix to simply keep his mouth shut and join Alliser in taking over the watch.

He returns to Jon with fresh gauze, stomach sinking as he lays eyes on the fatal lacerations he's come to dress. Giantsbane wonders if the crow can feel them now that he's breathing again.

Snow catches his eye, and Tormund blinks owlishly as he realizes the boy is awaiting some sort of response. He hasn't forgotten, only became side tracked by the reality of what's been returned to him.

"Could be." Giantsbane offers slowly, hands fumbling with tiny strips of cloth. "But I've made that mistake before. You said you saw your death in the eyes of the Night King and I thought you was just traumatized in some big way. We both know how that ended." He curls the bandages snugly around Jon's abdomen, eyes tracing the boys face for any signs of discomfort. And then, softly. "I think it's only fair we start lookin."

That catches Jon's attention.  He sits a little straighter, spine suddenly rigid under Tormund's fingertips. The boy seems to be holding his breath, entirely uncertain of what to make of that suggestion.

"Why would you want to look for my siblings?  You have all the freefolk to lead."  There is nothing Tormund could gain from helping.  The sex is amazing and the love is real but Jon would never ask this of him.  

Turns out he doesn't have to ask.  Giantsbane has known life without him, never wants to experience it again. The sun has no right to rise without Jon Snow, and if having some family around would help the crow want to live then it's Tormund's duty to find that family for him.  "I've two hands and enough time for both." He finishes tying off the bandages, hums softly in satisfaction with his work. "My people are only here because you made it so, Lord crow."

_Lord crow-_

A muscle in Jon's jaw jumps at the sound of it. He's still commander of this fucking place.  Looking for his family isn't even an option.  The weight of it seems to crush him, and Giantsbane scrambles forward in response.

"What's hurting you?"  The wildlings hands are on him then, searching. 

 "It's not that kind of hurt." Jon's gaze falls but Tormund catches his chin, carefully bringing the crows head up. Snow's face is unnaturally ashen, and Giantsbane notes the sweat gathering over his brow. The wildling swipes it away with a calloused thumb. 

"Then what kind is it?" The boy said his hurt isn't physical but Tormund is eyeballing him all the same, gaze trained on the curve of his belly where white is already stained red. Those wounds are promised to scar, death following him like a shadow. 

The moment stretches on.  Jon's face twists miserably.  "I....I don't think I can _do_ this anymore." It's a strained confession, one that has Tormund's heart leaping into his throat.

"Do _what?_ "  The wildling's breath catches, honey speckled eyes bright with alarm.  Jon realizes belatedly how it sounded, as if he were trying to break things off with the man who'd just tenderly bandaged him up.

"Be lord commander." The crow clarifies, forceful and sudden. "I'm not-I- _They fucking killed me_!"  He chokes on the taste of copper, wonders if this white hot wrath is what commander Mormont felt after being attacked by his own. 

Tormund can only look at him, dumbfounded.  The crow had died last night, nearly lost forever and this is what he's worried about? Commanding the nights watch for a bunch of ungrateful bastards who didn't lift a finger after Alliser left him gutted.

Giantsbane has no sympathy for them.

"So quit." There are many problems in this world that have no solution but this one is simple. 

Jon stares, eyes flashing incredulously.  "I cant just-" The boy cradles his head in both hands, frustrated. Tormund leans down to meet him, fingers searching through curls until he finds the nape of Jon's neck.  In truth Tormund is afraid to stop touching him, afraid this could be all he gets. 

"Yes you can. I've heard your bloody oath more than I can stand. You died. Your fucking watch has ended."

The boy makes a wounded noise. "Its not that simple."

"It is.  There's plenty of men here to take over.  You don't owe them a damn thing anymore."

Snow tugs at his beard, not hard enough to hurt but it sure as hell gets the wildling's attention. Tormund might've cursed had the crow not kissed him, so hard he can taste blood between them. Jon doesn't pull away, only readjusts and continues kissing him. The boys fingers curl in the fabric of Tormund's shirt, and while he doesn't say anything the wildling understands a _thank you_ when it's given.

* * *

Jon tries getting up for the first time.  His legs wobble like that of a newborn deer but he doesn't fall, Tormund wont allow it.  The wildling passes over clothes that Edd brought and waits, shamelessly enjoying the view as Jon dresses. 

"So is that all you saw?"  Giantsbane says the words conversationally, bending to scratch Ghost behind the ear like he would some common dog. Jon watches the interaction, aware that grief is bonding. He hesitates a moment longer than necessary before pulling a shirt over his head. 

"There was a little more I suppose. Mostly just glimpses of my life, Jon Snow's greatest hits and misses."  He'd seen the best days, teaching his younger brothers to use a sword and the rare occasions when Ned would take him and Rob out hunting, just the three of them wandering quietly through the forest. Tormund's grin as they made summit on the wall and Ygritte's hair poured over her shoulders in that cave. Maybe there was the whisper of Catelyn's voice for a moment, praying softly into his ear on a night he can't quite remember. In the end he saw flashes of Craster's keep as it stood after the brothers massacred Commander Mormont, and the brittle sound Ygritte's lungs made on her last breath. But worst of all....

 "I saw you falling."  The words come hesitant, as if speaking them aloud would somehow give them life  "I don't know why, or where you could've been.  Maybe top of the wall."  The boy inhales sharply, and Tormund reaches out instinctively to catch his arm.  Strong fingers work against aching muscle, and he waits patiently for Jon to find his voice again.  "There was ice and snow and you were just _gone_."  Jon croaks.  "Standing one moment and plummeting the next.  So fast that when I awoke and you weren't there.... I thought maybe I'd lived but you'd died somehow."  His voice cracks again, mouth carving into a deep frown.

"It was-jarring."

Giantsbane preens like a rooster whose had its feathers ruffled. "Ah, well.  Its sweet you dreamed of me crow but I wouldn't be fallin' from nowhere.  If you remember we climbed that bloody fuckin' wall together.  I think i'm acclimated enough to handle myself at this point, and besides,"  His tone is soft with fond exasperation.  "I have you to keep me from fallin' now don't I?" 

"This isn't some sort of joke Tormund."  Snow chides the man sullenly.  Ghost has gotten up from his place on the floor.  The beast now sits at his master's feet, leaning heavily against Jon's shins.  He watches them talk, ears perked and alert.  

The wildling takes on mildly concerned expression.  "Aye, don't I know it.  But there's nothing I can do about that right now.  I'll just try and keep my fiery red ass from atop the wall for awhile.  Does that satisfy you Lord Snow?" The man's voice holds an edge of teasing, and Jon just _knows_ he's being baited, but even the knowing isn't enough to stop a smile from tugging his lips.

"I guess it does." 

There's a flash of teeth as Giantsbane grins at him, one large hand reaching down to pat the dire wolf between it's ears.  Ghost leans into the touch, reminiscent of Jon whenever the wildling plays with his hair.  "Never much liked being up there anyways.  Good way to freeze your fuckin' balls off if you ask me."  His words are directed at the animal but Jon knows who they were meant for.

Ghost flicks his ears, red eyes shifting towards the door expectantly.  Jon lets out a gusty sigh and looks to the door as well.

Only seconds later there's knocking.

As to be expected it's Edd and Ser Davos they find standing outside.  Edd takes one look at Jon and brushes past Tormund, immediately drawn to his brothers side.  Davos is more polite, stops to shake hands before stepping into the room.  

"Looks like someone's feeling better.  We told the men you were back.  They'll be bloody pleased to see you."  Edd's words are laced with reassurances but Jon knows better.  He understands that Eddison means well but even so, he doesn't appreciate being handled delicately by someone who looks to him for leadership. 

"And what do they say about my coming back from the dead?"  

 Edd's mouth moves but he seems to be at a loss.  Davos is the one who steps forward with the truth.

"They're pretty spooked to tell ya honestly.  But they'll get over all that once they've finally seen you."  The onion knight is wringing his hands.  Jon counts his missing fingers.

"Is that why you've come? To tell me the men think me spooky?"  

Seaworth's lips twist into a rueful sort of smile. "I wish it were that simple.  We actually came for more pressing reasons, such as what to do with the mutineers."

Jon winces at the mention of them, and Tormund absolutely _snaps._

"What in the bloody fuck is there to decide? They're fuckin' traitors and they ought to die as such."  He speaks with so much spite that anyone who didn't know better might think he'd been their victim.  Davos takes his rage in stride, unflinching after so many years serving under Stannis.  

"That may be true."  The man responds patiently, his demeanor calm as it had been when he walked through the door. "But as Lord Commander it is still Jon's call."  Davos believes in justice.  The punishment must match the crime.  His king had taught him that a long time ago, hacking away his fingers while simultaneously handing him a future. This is going to be a harder call to make, not so black and white as smuggling.  And with a young child involved Davos does not envy Jon having to make this decision.  If it were left up to him he doubts he'd have the strength to make the right call, not when that boy looks to be the same age as Princess Shireen.  

Tormund comes to stand at Snow's side, jaw set in the same way it had been the night they fought at Hardhome. Jon knows that whatever his decision this man will have his back until the bitter end.

"Well King Crow, what's it gonna be?" 

Jon thinks back to the first time he watched his father condemn someone to the sword, awed by the kind of resolve it took to make that call and enforce it. Definitely not a job for the weak of heart. "It pains me to say so but I agree."  Having to make the decision himself shines a new light on Ned Stark and the kind of man he was. "They betrayed the watch and they should be punished for it.  No special treatment."  His father had taught him to be fair, carry out the sentence if he felt it necessary to make the ruling.  Ned said all these things and still Jon wonders what his father would think about putting a child to death, even a deserving one. 

"Very well then.  Edd and I will go gather the watch."  Davos nods gravely before heading back outside, Eddison following close behind. 

 Jon and Giantsbane watch them go, the air already tense with what's to come.  

"Tormund, would you have your men help with the...."  Jon nods at the door, more specifically the room where their cells are located.  Snow should be able to call them what they damn well are but the word gets caught in his throat.  Traitor.  He'll see those letters carved in wood for the rest of his wretched life.

The wildling is already pulling on his boots. 

"Aye i'm sure they won't mind." Snow doesn't have to explain it to him.  His crow has always had a kind heart.  There might be a special place in hell reserved for Alliser Thorne but Jon doesn't wish any of their brothers the pain of walking him to his death. 

* * *

The air is crisp.  This is the first Jon's seen of the sky since dying under its stars. It's still early morning. Soon the sun will break over Castle Black. They are to proceed at first light.  Birds sing, blissfully unaware. And while the wind is cold it's not uncomfortable. This would be a fine day if not for the five nooses strung across a wooden platform in the middle of their courtyard.  

Most everyone is already gathered by the time Jon finally steps foot outside.  He immediately feels eyes on him, knows that they've all been waiting to see the man whose heart only beats because a foreign women said some words over his corpse. Jon knew it was going to be like this.  Davos had taken him out on the balcony earlier so he could see what awaited him.  He tried to prepare himself but still his body seizes up, knees locking into place as he stares out at the small sea of faces watching his every move. They've parted to allow a clear path up to the platform.  Jon curses himself softly, more panic building with each motionless second that passes.  

It's damn near a blessing when Tormund emerges from the crowd, strides almost casual as he makes his way to Jon.  The man doesn't stop until they are face to face, so close that he could touch the crow if he wanted to.  

"They think you're some kind of God.  The man who returned from the dead."   He offers up a crooked smile, eyes crinkling at the edges.  This might not be a happy occasion but Tormund is fucking content.  Some men will die today but his crow is not one of them.  

"I'm not a god." Jon mutters in return, still highly aware of all the eyes picking him apart. Giantsbane must sense his unease, fingers closing around the crows elbow to tug him closer.

"I know that."  Lips caress the outer shell of Jon's ear and the boy struggles to keep from shuddering at the contact.  "I saw your pecker.  What kind of god would have a pecker that small?"

Ah, finally there is nothing he can do but smile back, completely caught off guard by the teasing.  It seems as though Tormund has learned more than just how to properly push his buttons.  Edd is upon them only seconds later.  He doesn't say as much but by the looks of him Jon imagines he'd been personally helping the wildlings escort all the accused up to the gallows.   

Above them the red women keeps silent vigil, standing poised on the balcony connected to her room.  Far enough that she can witness the spectacle without being a part of it. 

Those gathered wait for Jon to make his way towards the gallows. There the guilty party is already bound and standing in line. They all wear the same style noose, and it looks damn good on them in Tormund's opinion.  It's awfully quietly as Snow ascends the platform. Giantsbane lingers in the crowd with his people while Edd continues forward, a constant presence at Jon's side should he need the support. 

Snow looks upon the line of men and feels a million different things, but the most prominent of them is hurt. He'd trusted these people, thought them more noble than they turned out to be. Even still, the sight of them in nooses makes his stomach lurch.

Jon clears his throat, careful not to let the words hitch.

"Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck,"  Snow reads the names off one by one, each corresponding with a wound in his belly. The last is the hardest to speak but Jon squares his jaw and says it all the same, eyes flickering briefly to the young mans face. 

_"Olly."_

He doesn't know if the boy has a last name, never thought to ask about it. 

"If you have any last words, now is the time."  Jon drops his gaze from their faces, but his eyes catch on Olly's hands. They're small as Arya's had been on the day he left home, stained rusty brown beneath the nails with his blood. 

"You shouldn't be alive,"  Bowden spits at him, flecks of saliva traveling far enough to land on Jon's cheek.  "It's not right."  Snow can see in his eyes that he's honestly and truly afraid.  Maybe it's the rope around his neck, maybe its the dead man getting ready to drop him. Jon will never be sure, but he answers the man in kind.  

"Neither was killing me."

Othell refuses eye contact.  He's shaking in way that reminds Jon of so many his father put to death, quivering with acceptance. His only request is that Jon write his mother back in White Harbor, lie to her and say he was killed fighting wildlings instead of hung as a traitor to the watch.  He has a lot of balls asking anything of the man he'd slain in cold blood but Snow doesn't blame him.  The truth is a hard thing for any mother to hear.

Next in line is Ser Alliser Thorne himself. He looks about how Jon imagined he would, defiant to the end. Snow might admire him for it under different circumstances.

 Jon stares into his face and feels nothing but resentment. Alliser is at fault for Olly taking part. There might've already been hatred in the boys heart but this man gave it an outlet. 

Snow has to blame someone, and he chooses Thorne.

"I had a choice Lord Commander." The wind blows past them carrying the frigid cold with it.  Alliser is wearing no coat but still he does not shiver.  "Betray you, or betray the night's watch." 

The man juts his chin towards the crowd, disgusted even now as he lays eyes on the band of savages watching from the front.  "You brought an army of wildlings into our lands.  An army of murders and raiders."  Alliser finally looks at him then, stares right into Jon's soul.

In that moment, Snow feels small. "If I had to do it all over knowing where I'd end up, I pray id make the right choice again."  

Jon knows he means every word.

"I'm sure you would Ser Alliser." He holds the rope but Thorne is looking upon him like he's the one who should be pitied.

"I fought, I lost, now I rest. But you Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever." It clicks in that moment, the words branding him worse than any blade. Alliser might die today but after he will know peace while Jon is doomed to continue suffering. 

Olly doesn't say anything and Snow doesn't know if that's better or worse.  He will remember for the rest of his life what the others had said, but who will remember Olly? He has no family and no last words.  After today he will gradually fade from memory, and soon only Jon will know he existed at all.  

Snow waits a moment longer, gives Olly plenty of time.  The boy never once opens his mouth, just stares back at Jon with an unwavering hatred. It's the worst he can do.  Snow quietly memorizes the lines of his face, knowing that this is all wrong. In another life Olly would have grown up to be a good man with a loving family, living on a farm they built together.  

Maybe in the next one. 

There is only one thing left to do now.  Jon unsheathes Longclaw with steady hands, impressive considering his heart is hammering through the hollow of his throat. He turns towards the rope, humbled by how easy they've made it to end four lives at once.

He breathes deeply, fingers tight as they raise Longclaw over his shoulder.  A single moment of hesitation passes-

And then he swings. 

There's the swift snick of sword slicing through twine, and then a sudden jerk as the platform falls away and four more cables snap taught.

A chorus of choking follows. 

Jon turns away and tries to block out the sound.  He catches Tormund's gaze in the crowd.  The man's face is grave but he seems satisfied with what's transpired.  Jon wishes he could share the feeling.

Minutes drag on.  The gagging stops.  The crowd is so quiet Jon nearly forgets they've gathered, eyes flickering between their commander and the bodies he left swaying in the wind. Not even their breaths stir the silence.   Jon pays it no mind. He's finally gathered the courage to look back at what he's done.  Olly's face is empty of everything that made him precious. The boy's eyes stare blankly ahead, glassy and unseeing.

He's already turning blue. 

The sight is too much.  Jon feels bile rise in the back of his throat, swallows it down before anyone has time to notice. This is one of those life changing moments, the kind that define a man.  Snow sheaths his sword, struggling not to stumble under the weight of this sin.  Eddison stands off to the side, awaiting orders.  

Jon makes his way over, willing the strides to be even and unwavering despite how his knees threaten to buckle at any moment. 

Edd greets him with a welcoming nod, already going about his new job splendidly. "We should burn the bodies."

Ah yes.  That's a good idea.  Snow already knew he was leaving the watch in good hands but this only confirms it.  Edd always has a plan.

" _You_ should." Jon pulls the black cape off his shoulders.  It's the heaviest thing he's ever worn. Carefully he settles it into Edd's arms.  The man gives him a funny look, head cocked to the side in mild curiosity. 

"What do you want me to do with this?"

Jon shrugs, distracted.  It doesn't matter to him anymore what's done with it. Tormund stands on the edge of the crowd, waiting. Their eyes meet, and it gives Snow the last bit of strength he needs.

"Wear it. Burn it. Whatever you want."  Jon claps Edd on the shoulder, his gaze bordering on pity when he says,  "You have Castle Black."  It had been an honor at one time, and now he only wants to be rid of the burden it's become. 

Edd open his mouth as if to argue but Snow is already descending the stairs. Anything he might've said is drown out by Jon's sudden announcement. 

"My watch is ended."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said the last chapter was hard but this one was more like pulling teeth. The first draft was a wreck and It's been revised so many times I lost count. For a while I thought about abandoning it altogether, but then someone would comment and i'd be encouraged enough to continue. I just want to say thank you. This chapter has come so far from what it was and while it's no where near perfect I don't hate it anymore. If not for you guys it never would've left my computer. 
> 
> You're the best! I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for your time. I don't know yet if I will keep it going. I have drafts that stretch into the Battle of the Bastards, which is the story I meant to tell. That small moment where Tormund whispers 'dont' is so intimate. I'd love to get there but sometimes it's best to quit while we're ahead. I'd hate to get boring. 
> 
> Thanks again!
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](https://napalmcoughdrop.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Darlingpleased1)


End file.
